


Advent Calendar 2010

by Everlind, namae_nashi (Valshenne)



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 32,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valshenne/pseuds/namae_nashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collaboration between namae_nashi and me. All Silver Pair. Art by namae_nashi, stories by me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DAY 1 ~ FOOT KISS PG

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Танабата](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1474801) by [Kenilvort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenilvort/pseuds/Kenilvort)



It strikes Shishido as strange when Choutarou says he likes everything about him.  
  
"You can't like everything about me," Shishido will say to it. "Nobody likes everything about someone else."  
  
At which Choutarou returns, "You don't like everything about me?"  
  
Which will stump him, because he knows there should be a bazillion hang ups he could be naming, but he always seems to forget them right that moment.  
  
And Choutarou doesn't only mean him, as a person, but his body also.  
  
Seeing as Choutarou is binding up his freshly banged-up shin, kneeling on the cold tiles of the clubhouse while Shishido is sitting on his desk. He's just off the courts and sweaty and gross and covered in filth. His legs aren't the most sexy part of him to begin with, covered in scabs and skinny as they are and is there any person out there who has attractive  _feet_  to begin with?  
  
Really now.  
  
Most  _un_ attractive body part in existence, or something.  
  
So he really jumps nearly off the desk in surprise when Choutarou lifts his foot and kisses the sole of it.  
  
"Choutarou!" he snaps. "That's…"  
  
 _Weird?_  
  
Well, it is.  
  
But when Choutarou just sorta smiles and rolls his eyes at his reaction, he realizes that, strange as it sounds, it's true.  
  
Choutarou likes everything about him.  
  


❧

  
  



	2. DAY 2 ~ BRAID PG-13

At eighteen, Shishido thinks his hair might be as long as it used to be.  
  
Maybe even a little longer.  
  
He also thinks that when he stands before the mirror he should feel that sharp stab of fierce pride again at the sight of it, but it doesn't happen. He supposes it doesn't look bad, or anything, not when it shines like that and drapes over his shoulders soft and smooth when it's loose.  
  
It takes him endlessly long to care for it, the products he's got to use, the extensive lathering it and washing it, the drying it and the brushing of it. Now he's got an elastic around his wrist at all times, because if the one in his hair snaps he'll have a reserve. There's nothing as aggravating as it trailing in the way of his vision all day or the weight of it obstructing him when he plays.  
  
No, he hasn't grown it long for his own enjoyment.  
  
Wait.  
  
Maybe he has.  
  
There's nothing that he enjoys more than Choutarou's fingers combing through it, settling his tips at the hairline and then dragging them softly along his scalp and into the strands and then down, down, down until the ends of his hair slip loose. Or he gathers it, like now, long clever fingers brushing against the back of his neck and then soft pulling as he parts it, playing it into a braid.  
  
  


  
  
  
It feels strange, heavy against his nape and thick along his spine like that, but it's just to go to sleep anyway.  
  
Because if he lets it loose either of them might lie on it and hurt him when they curl up together. And in the morning it will come loose when Choutarou steals the elastic out of it and combs it loose as they make love.  
  
With Choutarou's fingers buried in it and his mouth wanting on his,  _that's_  when he feels the fierce stab of pride.  
  
When it matters.


	3. DAY 3 ~ TANABATA G

Shishido is probably the last to tie his tanzaku on the bamboo tree.  
  
It is dark, close to midnight, and he's standing under the drooping plants, which lean criss-cross over the path as through tipsy and in need of one other's support to keep standing. It makes for a green tunnel with colorful slips of paper dangling everywhere around him. There's just enough light from the stalls streaming through that Shishido sees rainbow colors and glowing green leaves all around.  
  
  


  
  
It's beautiful.  
  
For a moment it doesn't matter that he's dressed up in his aniki's jinbei which gapes at his neck and sits baggy around his torso. The drawstrings in his shorts have been tightened so much that the fabric makes ugly folds at his waist. He looks stupid and he feels stupid and what he's doing is stupid, but right now, this very moment, it doesn't matter.  
  
He walks along the leaf-strewn path, one hand extended to brush the tanzaku as goes, leaving them twirling and dancing in his wake. Dozens of wishes spin as his fingers brush them and maybe he's touched one or two from people he knows. Maybe even from… no, unlikely.  
  
He picks a spot, the perfect spot. One where there are a lot of tanzaku gathered close like a hanging, unfurling flower. Child's heigh, Shishido notices. Probably a kindergarten class that passed by earlier today. Between them, tucked deep, he ties his own.   
  
The paper is a soft, creamy white, the string bright red.  
  
He's only written one word.  
  
He has only one wish, after all. The simplest to ask, but the most complicated to get. For a few minutes he stays there, watching the paper stick out between the others, a white slash between a red and a green.  
  
 _Please_ , he thinks.   
  
Closing his eyes, he bows his head, wills everything he has, all the raw need and fear and emotion into that one word. Then, sudden, he stands up and walks away without a backward look.  
  
  
  
In a burst of colorful tanzaku, all scribbled full with child-made wishes -some more general and less selfish than others- is one creamy white one. There is no crippled poetry on it, nor enough words to create a context for the wish. Just one word, no explanation. Perhaps there is none needed.  
  
  
長太郎


	4. DAY 4 ~ PREY PG-13

Choutarou is asleep on the couch when he comes home.  
  
Probably he intended to lie down for only a moment, because he is shirtless and wearing one of his most comfortable sweatpants.   
  
Shishido takes a moment to appreciate the view.  
  
Choutarou is lying on his side, half-curled like he always sleeps, fitting his long legs barely onto the couch, with his bare feet hanging over the edge. The arm trapped under him is drawn up to smush his hand under his cheek, pillowing it, while the other dangles over the edge, knuckles brushing the carpet. His lips are slightly parted as he breathes and his hair is one mop of half-curls hanging over his forehead.  
  
Tip-toeing closer, Shishido crouches and watches him.  
  
Concludes yet again he's one lucky bastard.  
  
He's tempted to reach and feel the smooth plane of Choutarou's belly, slide his thumb over the edge of his hipbone and maybe under the elastic of his sweats and check whether he's having nice dreams. But even to just lay his hand on Choutarou's shoulder and feel the strength and potential in him, savor the urge to put his mouth there and make mark, because he can.  
  
Or to lean forward and kiss the sleep from Choutarou's mouth, taste the inside of it when he'd part his lips.  
  
He loves the planes and contours of Choutarou's face. He's got an amazing mouth on him, full and generous above a strong chin, underscored by the slice of his jaw. His nose is straight and slightly long, while his cheekbones are sculpted. Lashes make a dusky fan on them, and above those his lids shiver with dreams.  
  
The urge to lick his mouth or run his hands over Choutarou's broad chest are tempting, to caress his nipples and draw those delicious breathy ah!'s from him. He'd put his hand under the elastic and stroke him until he'd have Choutarou squirming under his touch, tease him until he's asking for it.   
  
Perhaps he'd have Choutarou right there on the couch, on his back with his fists tangled in the cushions, driving him to the moment where his back bows under the force of his climax.  
  
He looks at his partner and rolls the possibility of it over his tongue, considers it.  
  
In the end he smiles and presses a kiss to Choutarou's forehead, whose mouth curves in his sleep.  
  


❧

  
  



	5. DAY 5 ~ UNDER THE STARS PG-13

"Focus, Choutarou!" Shishido yells at him.  
  
He tries.  
  
The grip tape tightens under his fingers, spongy and slick with stinging salt and grime. He plants his feet, centers his body. Makes sure he feels his calves tense at the ready, his muscles tightened but not cramped. He wants to flow over the court the way Shishido-san is doing, with ease and confidence and rough-edged beauty.  
  
Shishido is not especially elegant. He doesn't move with the grace Atobe has, or the feline roll of the body Oshitari possesses. He skids and trips and falls, gradually stripping layer after layer of skin from his legs, until they'll be raw slabs of infected meat for Ohtori to patch up.  
  
Still, there's something about Shishido's presence on a court that makes you want to stand stock-still and gape. He is utterly predatory and aggressive and doesn't bother to dampen the roar of his determination. It's bad enough when he's off the courts, but on them…  
  
It doesn't frighten Ohtori, nor does it cow him. But the averse effect of it is that he wants to share in that, let that iron-clad connection flare up between them and soak in the symbiosis of their combination. Seeing as he is playing against Shishido, he needs to keep the connection severed or they'll be at it all night.   
  
Usually he can focus. But tonight the skies are dark purple with the last of the sun's rays creeping over the edge of the earth and the stars are scattered in abundance for as far as he can see.  
  
The two of them started out under these selfsame stars, too. At opposite sides of the net. There was the same amount of fire in Shishido as there is now and he made Ohtori's heart beat as fast, too. The symbolic presence of the same stars now encourages him. Deep inside of him, he knows that they'll always wind up like this, in this rush of emotion and mutual respect and sheer fighting spirit. At either side of the net or on the same, it doesn't change them.   
  
The stars glow, as old as the earth and as sure as their combination.  
  
Ohtori fumbles through his game as he tries to keep the tide of 'NOW' in check and loses spectacularly.   
  
But he's never been as sure of something as he is right now.  
  
So when Shishido leans over the net as to chew him out properly, Ohtori leans in and kisses the open lips.  
  
  
And under those stars, Shishido kisses him back.  
  


❧

  
  



	6. DAY 6 ~ ON THE ROAD PG

"SLOW DOWN!!!" Choutarou positively shrieks into his ear.  
  
Shishido winces and scowls, but gears down to third. It's like driving with a hysterical girl by his side. "Look, I got my permit for a reason, Choutarou," he snaps. "First try. Whereas it took you… what, three tries?"  
  
Choutarou, looking kind of beleaguered, frowns at him. Around the sides of the seat are his hands in a white-knuckled grip, almost as though he's trapped on the most fucked-up ride in a theme park.  
  
Shishido smirks. It's kind of a low blow, he knows, because it were narrow misses and mostly attributed to how ridiculously  _careful_  Choutarou is when he drives. On the other hand Shishido knows he kicks ass at driving and Choutarou is acting as though he's practicing punch buggy on small kittens.  
  
"Look in front of you!" Choutarou says urgently.  
  
Shishido rolls his eyes and turns his chin, completely confident that there's nothing coming from the opposite direction.   
  
See? Nothing.  
  
And why would there be? They're in the middle of nowhere. Just trees. And rice paddies. And grass.  
  
"Relax," Shishido says, trying to sound calm and soothing, despite being mildly annoyed. He lets his hand slip from the knob of the gear and rests it on Choutarou's thigh. Makes figure-eights, with his fingertips.  
  
All Choutarou does, though, is squirm and stare at the road. "Careful," he mutters.  
  
Shishido sighs. Maybe he'll relax in time. Of course, it might not help that Shishido 'borrowed' his aniki's dump of a car, which makes odd clanking noises and needs to be sweet-talked before she'll start, but when she gets moving she's a delight to handle. She just doesn't look like it.  
  
After another ten minutes, he pulls up into a grassy berm, cuts down the engine.  
  
"Hey," he says after a moment of silence. "I wouldn't… put you into any… er, danger."  
  
At that Choutarou turns to look at him, utterly bewildered. He blinks a few times, as though Shishido just mentioned Atobe's animal print y-fronts Oshitari once found back in high school.  
  
"I know," he says. Kinda tentatively at that, as though he's not sure where Shishido is going with this.  
  
"Then why are you so afraid in the car with me?" Shishido asks, stumped.  
  
"I'm not afraid."   
  
Shishido gives him a look.  
  
"I trust you," Choutarou stresses. "But… ah, you drive kinda fast and the car is really, really old… I don't know. It might explode?" That last he adds somewhat tentatively.  
  
Shishido sighs, elbows him. "You're a pussy, Choutarou." he says.  
  
But then he leans in and kisses him on the cheek.  
  


❧

  
  



	7. DAY 7 ~ EUCALYPTUS OVERLOAD G

The creature weighs  _heavy_.   
  
More so than he'd ever have thought. And it kinda reeks like… well, eucalyptus, not usually a smell that he considers unpleasant, but that is before he ever caught a whiff of something that lives in it 24/7, eats it 24/7 and shits it back out… not quite 24/7, thank god.  
  
So it reeks and he feels a little silly standing there, but on the other hand there's something to be said for being cuddled by koala. There were a ton of things Shishido would have settled on doing that day instead of cuddling _koalas_ , but he wasn't alone and compromises needed to be made. They may or may not have had a discussion about it along these lines: He wanted to go surfing tomorrow? Fine. But they were in Beerwah  _now_  and wasn't there a Zoo around here? No, not for the crocodiles. For the koalas. Yes, the koalas. What's wrong with that? …what's lame about a koala?  
  
"Well?" Choutarou says. He seems to have bonded with his, the two of them are positively embracing as though they're long lost brothers.  
  
Shishido rolls his eyes. A small, rough paw pats along his arm as the animal shifts. Small dark eyes gleam at him. A funny, flat black nose rubs against his neck. Downy ears dust his cheek. It's fluffy, unbelievably so, and soft. And, alright,  _fine_ , it does do something to him to be held back by an animal. R2 may wag his tail and jump and drool profusely out of joy and yes, he loves that… but R2 doesn't hug Shishido back. Not like this.  
  
The koala, ever sleepy, rests his head an Shishido's shoulder. Breathes deeply in, then out, content. Its arms are around him, as well as they can reach, one hand warm on his arm, the other slung over his shoulder.  
  
Choutarou walks over, grins a little.  
  
Shishido clicks his tongue. " _Fine_." he grumbles. "I guess they are alright."  
  
Choutarou looks at him for a long time with that dopey little grin plastered on his face. After a while, he carefully sets his koala on the ground, where it promptly wraps around his leg. Before Shishido catches on, he's whipped out the camera and has taken a picture. Shishido's koala makes a funny sound at the flash, hides its face into his t-shirt, clinging tighter. He pats it, digging his fingers into the thick pelt, soothing.  
  
"Cute," Choutarou says, tucking the camera away and lifting his own koala up again, after it reluctantly relinquishes his leg.  
  
Nodding, Shishido looks at the face -or what he can see of it- pressed against him. "Yeah, yeah. They're cute, happy?"  
  
A little chuckle. "I actually meant you," he says.  
  
"Oi!"  
  
Laughing, Choutarou walks away, hugging the koala closer to him. Over his shoulder, two black eyes peer curiously at Shishido.   
  
"Che," Shishido says, more to his koala than anybody else. "Choutarou's lame, isn't he?"  
  
The koala yawns, bumps heads with him.   
  
"Yeah, I think so too," Shishido nods. Sighs. The koala really is soft. And warm. And cute.  
  
  
…maybe he can take one home, if he asks nicely.  
  
  
They are  _really_ , really cute.  
  
  
Shishido squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head.  
  
The koala is making him think lame, mushy thoughts.  
  
  
Stupid koala.  
  
Stupid Choutarou.  
  
Fucking lame.


	8. DAY 8 ~ TOUGH LOVE PG

"R2!" It positively echoes through the park  
  
Ohtori winces.  
  
"R2, here boy! Atta good boy, who's a good boy, huh, R2? Yeah…"  
  
A lady walking her child home after school raises an eyebrow as she passes. Even the little girl looks incredulous, mouth hanging open.  
  
Ohtori gives them an awkward smile (nothing to see here, please move along), before looking to where Shishido is crouching with the dog, both of them covered in leaves and dirt and things he probably doesn't want to know about. Not only that but R2 is slobbering all over his face and pawing mud all over him, pink tongue lolling out and tail rotating like a lopsided helicopter at all the praise and sweet nothings Shishido coos at him.  
  
Really, Ohtori could be jealous and nobody would blame him, because the dog gets to smear him with drool, but Ohtori can't even hold his hand when they're in public. At least not where anybody can see it. And yes, R2 is a dog while he and Shishido are two men in a relationship and it really isn't the same, but on the other hand people _would_  get it if he  _was_  jealous.   
  
And that is not even mentioning the fact that Shishido says stuff like 'such a handsome boy', 'you rule' and 'you're the best' to the dog, cuddling and petting and murmuring all the while.  
  
This time a teenager passes, seventeen, eighteen, Ohtori can't tell. Funny thing is that the boy is sporting a pink t-shirt, jeans so skinny they must be… uncomfortable and several pieces of golden jewelry (like Shishido would say: 'he probably isn't but he looks fucking gay') and as weird as he's dressed, he makes a  _face_  at the grown man playing with a dog in the park.  
  
Well, Ohtori can't blame him, actually.  
  
Shishido does look a little… ah, eccentric like that rolling on the ground with a dog named after a… a robot? A voice sounding suspiciously like Shishido's informs him sternly: droid. Well, named after a droid in a movie  _everybody knows_ , laughing and playing around and probably getting a little too much into it.  
  


  
He could be jealous.  
  
Or embarrassed.  
  
Instead he has to smile, too, especially when Shishido apparently saw that look and sticks out his tongue at the teen's back, before rolling his eyes and grinning up at Choutarou. Leaves stick in his hair and the autumn sun make his eyes glow bright, like fire almost in the center.  
  
For all his tough act Shishido is rather like a big kid himself at times. And Ohtori likes it.  
  
He likes Shishido like this. It's… endearing, though Shishido would murder him if he said that out loud, but it is and he loves all those polar-opposites that make up this person hugging a dog without a care for who might see it, but will turn tomato red if Ohtori dares to kiss him in front of people they know.  
  
Later, when they walk home, R2 chases birds and snaps at leaves, barking and wagging and squirming with glee. A white blur with a brown, square-shaped patch around his right eye, hence the name.  
  
The two of them walk side by side, wordless and at ease and that's it. Or so Ohtori thought, because suddenly an arm snakes around his middle, tugs him closer.  
  
Shishido kisses him on the cheek, fairly careless since they aren't alone exactly, though nobody seems to pay them any attention. Then he lets go and they walk on.  
  
It's just a moment, barely worth mentioning, if it weren't for that smile, that look, which reaches inside Ohtori's chest and lingers there.  
  
Because that?   
  
That is all for him.  
  
Only him.


	9. DAY 9 ~ SHARING R

It is a Sunday and Shishido wakes for the second -maybe third- time dangerously close to noon.   
  
Just a soft dawning of awareness, eyes opening and finding himself pressed face-first against a row of ribs. Choutarou is still deep asleep, knocked out cold after a rather intense session of morning sex (… or rather early midday by the last bout). The memory of it visits him physically rather than visually: a languid, replete feeling and some sore muscles, the urge to grin uncontrollably, not to mention everything being absurdly sensitive. He can feel their love making branded onto his body, both in the base 'just had damn good sex' sorta sensation, as well as being sticky all over.  
  
And hungry.   
  
Close to starving, actually.  
  
Some maneuvering is required to extract himself from Choutarou's hold on him, who always seems to sense when Shishido wants to get up and will unfailingly wrap all limbs at his disposal around him to keep him in bed. Without waking up. Eventually his feet touch the floor. Cold air clings to his legs and hurries in a convulsive shiver up his back and for a moment he's tempted to yank his the sheets back over himself and burrow into the warmth of Choutarou's body. But he's hungry and it is almost -oops, no wait, it is midday now, one minute past even-, and someone has to get up.  
  
So he does, hurriedly hopping into a pair of boxers and a loose shirt he finds discarded in the middle of the room. It's large, baggy around his torso, but worn to comfortable softness. Best of all? It smells like Choutarou.  
  
The house in twilight shadows. The blinds are drawn and he doesn't open them, letting the last haze of sleep cling. The kitchen is brighter, in a cool sort of way that tells of winter. Everything is silent, like the smooth mirror-surface of a lake before a pebble is cast into it, which translates to Shishido putting on water to boil for tea and flipping on the rice cooker.  
  
He is busy with that, still fuzzy and languid, and doesn't notice Choutarou until arms slip around him.  
  
"So here's where my shirt went off to," he murmurs against the side of Shishido's throat.  
  
Turning in the embrace, Shishido faces his partner and gives him a crooked sort of smile.  
  
"Morning," he mumbles. Brushes the back of his knuckles down the middle of Choutarou's bare chest. "I think I like these pajamas better without the shirt," he adds.  
  
Hands settle on his waist, rub the cotton up and down against his skin. "Cold though."  
  
He's just wearing the pants, definitely the bottom half of the set: the same creamy white Shishido's shirt is. They sit loose and low on his hips, just as used and familiar as the shirt. It makes for a whole lot of bare skin and it being Choutarou's whole lot of bare skin, Shishido definitely approves. Broad, not as skinny as he is yet definitely lean and healthy with enough muscle to make him toned without being buff. That's sexy, but the mad nest of bed-hair is, well, kinda cute and the sleepy yet intimate look is a mix of both.  
  
He likes it.  
  
A lot.  
  
And he loves it when Choutarou pulls him in to hold him, large hands splaying against the small of his back, his own curled against a bare chest. The kiss is tender and lingering, backed up by a tide of affection and the whole morning spend in bed, a mix of sleeping, cuddling and sex.  
  
They hug, in the chilly kitchen with the bubbling water in the background, and Shishido smiles at how they complete the set of pajamas.  
  
And complete something else as well.  
  


 


	10. DAY 10 ~ MAKING OUT IN THE CAR NC-17

The gear is digging into his leg and starting to hurt, at that, but just when he thinks about  _doing_  something about it, Shishido-san moves his mouth and kisses his ear.  
  
Instead his body jerks, as though the teeth and lips at his earlobe are actually somewhere down in his pants, and he hits his knee against the dashboard. Pain blooms, hot and sharp, but Shishido is also breathing hot and making suggestive licks and sending shivers down his spine and the fantastic bruise he just acquired is forgotten.  
  
And the only thing he's capable of is holding Shishido's hips steady, before he thinks it a brilliant plan to start up a steady cant in his lap. If he comes in his pants on the parking lot of Atobe's gala,  _before_  the evening has started, he won't forgive Shishido.  
  
Of course, keeping Shishido's hips still means he can't keep track of what the rest of him is getting up to, such as nudging Ohtori's head back and messing up his painstakingly flattened hair as it gets crumpled against the headrest when he wants to suck at his throat, or his nimble hands popping buttons like a pro so he can swipe a rough thumb over his right nipple.  
  
"Shishido-san-" he gasps and jumps again when Shishido bends his head, more flexible than you'd think, to put his warm damp mouth on the nipple.  
  
Not to mention that while Ohtori is trying to keep him from rubbing his behind over his erection, Shishido has two hands free which he can shove down between their bodies to stroke him through his pants.  
  
Ohtori sucks in a shrieking breath, sees a sea of cars and harsh streetlights, with a festively lit building in the distance, before he has to close them against the visual of Shishido licking his chest, a broad swipe towards his other nipple.  
  
"Ryou-" he hisses instead, when Shishido nibbles with gentle sharpness at the sensitive area, the hand between them working his fly open. "You're going to make me-  _ah!_  and-and… wha-what about Atobe-san's party?"  
  
Shishido drags his mouth away from the exquisite torture he'd been laving onto his chest, only to kiss him again.  
  
God, Ohtori loves him like this, though. Warm and needy and aggressive about it, with his mouth one bruised heat from biting and licking Ohtori all over. There's this way he has of kissing Ohtori then, hungry and demanding, but sweet, too, and entirely reminiscent of how he is when Ohtori is buried deep inside of him and they're hanging on the brink of completion together.  
  
"You wanna go to his stupid gala?" Shishido asks against his mouth. His hand presses insistently over the bulge in his pants. "Then go."  
  
Shishido knows he's won. He probably knew it as soon as he crawled into his lap and Ohtori let him, though he knew it was a deliberate maneuver to distract him. Shishido didn't want to go and now he has conned Ohtori into a heavy make-out session in the car. At this point he's fairly certain they'll wind up with a no-show, despite Atobe's explicit and slightly forceful invitation.  
  
Ohtori licks his lips, which seem dry though Shishido has suckled them slick and shakes his head. "Fine. Have it your way, we'll go back home."  
  
Shishido gives him a toothy grin, filled up to his ears with mischief. "We're not going anywhere," he tells him faux-seriously. "For the next two hours."  
  
Oh damn.  
  
"Fine," Ohtori says after an internal struggle with his conscience that took into consideration public places and the risk of doing naughty deeds at them (which lasted pitifully short, really). "If you'd planned for this, couldn't you have picked someplace less… risky?"  
  
Shishido smirks and whips Ohtori's belt through its loops with one strong tug. "Where's the fun in that?"  
  
Where indeed?


	11. DAY 11 ~ PETS PG

There's something to be said for having a cat and a dog.  
  
  
Ohtori likes cats. Their independence and streak of untamable wildness is something he admires and something that is surprisingly beautiful under its rough edges. They can flounce about as though they own the place and everything in it (including you, and by that point you usually are too besotted to care), have no scruples about haughtily planting themselves in the middle of what you were busy with if they want your attention. Strongly determined cats are like that, when they want something they want it right away and don't like taking a no for an answer. Cats take the craziest of risks, often with you standing by and pleading they don't and they'll pointedly ignore you and do it anyway. Usually they are alright and you'll be standing with your heart in the back of your throat with sheer relief and outrage. Cats can be cold and distant. But there's a playfulness that never truly disappears, a certain Joie de Vivre, a passion for life.  
  
A cat owns you, instead of you them.  
  
You might be facing a somewhat aloof shoulder one moment, but as soon as nobody's looking they'll be in your lap rubbing faces with you, purring and kneading and marking you because they love you and you are theirs and they need others to keep their hands off. Then the merest touch will have them curl on their back and bare their bellies for you to pet, eyes closed in perfect trust. And you will pet them, probably feeling honored that you may, but you'll also know that you'll always be the only one for them, the only one who is allow to touch them like this.  
  
  
Shishido likes dogs. He likes the deep, powerful loyalty of a dog, a loyalty you have even if you don't deserve it. The same goes for their ability to love. A dog loves you. Truly and completely. Always and forever, if you let it. Physically a dog (the kind he likes: big) is powerful. They are strong and brave, will come if you call them even when they're afraid. While magnificent creatures, there's also a slightly awkward and sometimes silly side to them, which is utterly endearing. He adores the look in their eyes: the warmth and affection, a devotion that is solely for you. And what better feeling to come home and be greeted by their honest joy at seeing you, complete with tongue-lolling and tail-wagging, squirming and besides themselves with it. A dog is steadfast. When you get one you should get it for life, because chances are the dog will be yours, forever, even if you abandon it.  
  
When a dog gives you his loyalty, it gives you his heart, too.  
  
Yes, they are unabashedly reckless and 'in your face' about their love for you. To the point of annoyance, even. But even that is something you'll grow to love.  
  
  
Ohtori and Shishido own a dog and a cat. They don't fight. Both animals are complete polar-opposites of one other, not to mention an entirely different species. Yet they eat together, sleep together, play together, live together. When Ohtori's cat goes roaming the neighborhood, Shishido's dog will be waiting for him to come back. Most of the time the cat will go about its own way, pretending to be busy napping or grooming and the dog will lay down and wait, because it knows better.  
  
In the evenings, when Shishido and Ohtori are tucked together on the couch, watching a movie (or each other), the dog will hop on next to them. Two hands will reach and pet him, fondle his soft ears, stroke his light fur. Not even half an hour later the cat will appear out of nowhere and curl up against the dog as though he was there all along.  
  
It works.


	12. DAY 12 ~ PANORAMA PG

The sky was electric blue and endless.  
  
Sunburst edges the wisps of cloud in the west, pink and champagne hued. All around them is white, fine sand, spearing into the horizon left and right of him, rolling up into dunes facing their backs. Only before him is water, the ocean, shades darker than the sky, more slate. Surf laps up to his ankles, cool refreshing licks. Ohtori curls his toes in the soft sand, inhales.  
  
It is warm, hot.   
  
Where the rest of the team is, Ohtori doesn't know. He doesn't care.  
  
There was tennis today, in this punishing heat, tennis and endurance training. Never before has he been as bathed with sweat as he'd been then. His jersey had been soaked, reeking of it, and his hair had been plastered to his skull, damp loose loops. Even the waistband of his shorts and boxers had been dark with sweat, where it leaked down from his belly.  
  
The others had drooped off to their air-conditioned rooms, to bathe in their luxurious bathrooms. Ohtori had thought he hadn't wanted anything more than that, too, and thus had not been happy to be towed away by his equally sweaty and dirty senpai.  
  
Of course, that was until he saw what Shishido-san was up to.  
  
They still need a shower, because they ran into the ocean wearing their shorts and everything is tight with salt now. The cool splash had invigorated him and they'd played around, chasing one other, Ohtori at one point even picking his senpai up and throwing him. Then tennis, which cost them a whole canister of balls that got lost into the ocean, but had been stupidly fun and had them weak with laughter.  
  
Now he's tired, but in a good way.  
  
The sun is hot on the bare skin of his torso, but the falling dusk is just enough to take the burn away and the cool breath of the water good to keep him from perspiring.  
  
Soon they'll head back to the hotel, where he'll take a shower and crawl between the sheets. He might not fall asleep this early, but it'll feel good to just lay down and rest.  
  
He kind of wants to do so now, just thinking about it, so he does.  
  
Sand sticks against his back. It doesn't matter, he needs a shower anyway, but his head is pillowed on something both soft and hard at the same time.  
  
Fingers flick against his cheek, playful, and Ohtori looks to the side. He sees up Shishido's torso to his face in sharp perspective, but there's a lopsided grin for him. He rolls to his side, coating himself in even more sand, but now he can keep looking.  
  
They watch each other a while, Shishido's hand having retreated to hook behind his head as he lays on his back. His stomach is hard with muscle, but soft still, human and alive and smooth skin. It feels good against his cheek.  
  
He's getting sleepy and this isn't the place for a nap, but Ohtori doesn't care. He feels too good.   
  
It has been a hell of a day  
  
But just for this, it is worth it.  
  
Slowly, subtly, the sun sinks lower, seems to grow heavier with orange light as it does. The sky becomes a wash of purples and pinks and deep, dusky reds, which is mirrored on the ocean. It glimmers like a shaky pathway, starting as close as where the sea sits around his ankles and up over the surface, cut off by the horizon.  
  
Shishido didn't say a thing about watching the sunset together.  
  
But when he peeks at his face, he can see the red glow caught in the deep brown of his irises as he watches intently. It was what he was aiming for, Ohtori guesses and smiles a little.  
  
This is still very new, very precious. Caught on a knife's edge where they have become physically close enough to lie like this -Ohtori's head pillowed on Shishido's stomach- and to place innocent yet hungry touches on one other. They have yet to kiss.  
  
Ohtori doesn't mind.  
  
They have time.  
  
A whole lifetime.


	13. DAY 13 ~ TEMPERATURE PG-13

With Shishido, Ohtori always sees it coming.

It starts with stillness.

There's never really something still about Shishido, even when he isn't moving. Shishido is packed with some inner flame that you can see even when he sleeps, flickering behind his closed eyelids. He's warm then, very much alive, perfect for Ohtori to tuck up against, basking in the feeling of that. Even when he's rapt with attention -eyes on some outrageous and impossible scenario out of one of those movies he likes to watch, the ones that have lots of explosions and robots- even then he burns like fire. On a court he's ablaze, a small inferno. When they lie together, sliding towards completion in one another's arms, it's the sort of wildfire that Ohtori loves to let himself consumed by.

Now it is stillness.

Bleary eyes and a sort of general apathy to the world at large. Choutarou catches him dozing off, before he rouses himself with a firm headshake, annoyed. He fumbles with grasping the essence of what Choutarou tells him and is even slower with his responses.

Shishido Ryou might bare his teeth at pain and kick it in the face, but when he's sick, it's like world is ending. Though he isn't the type to whine, but rather the type to try and suck it up, he fails at it and badly.

By the end of the day, when they're both home from work, Choutarou puts a hand over his forehead and finds him burning in a whole different way.

"You okay?" he asks. "You're burning up."

After a moment, Shishido nods. "I'm fine." Then he coughs, hacks. Blinks. Sniffles. "Just fine."

Ohtori doesn't even hide the roll of his eyes.

So he fetches the thermometer. After sitting Shishido on the couch, Ohtori looks into his mouth, feels his throat. Then, kneeling on the ground between Shishido's slender legs, so they are at more or less at eye's height (though he's still taller), he pops the instrument between Shishido's lips. That gets a mildly cranky look, but it quickly dissolves under the stupor of illness. After the correct amount of time he takes it back, starts at just how far the red line reaches.

He knows he a bit of the caring type, or 'mothering' as Shishido calls it. But how can he not when as he witnesses his partner wilt as the sickness takes hold, lames him into a little shivering ball in a corner of the couch?

Two hours later sees Ohtori sitting on the couch with Shishido wrapped up in a blanket, trying to spoon-feed some soup into him. It goes slow, Shishido's eyes are unfocussed, watery and red. At least Shishido's temperature ceased to rise, but the wind-down after an active day of work was enough to let illness settle. In just this little while, Shishido is rendered completely vulnerable.

He worries, of course.

Yet...

Some part of him is immensely flattered at how deeply Shishido truly trusts him, when it comes down to it. Being lovers is one thing, but for Shishido to truly lower every single defense and allow Ohtori to care for him, is something else completely.

Shishido doesn't manage even a fourth of the cup and the act of eating seems to have exhausted him. He slumps again Ohtori, breathes deeply and heavily.

"Tired," he mumbles. 

Ohtori nods. He stands and reaches. Shishido reaches back, but surprising in how: almost like a small child, arms open to be picked up.

Wow, Ohtori thinks wryly, he must really be sick.

So he picks him up like that, Shishido cradled against his front, legs around his middle and arms around his neck. Shishido's hot face wobbles against his shoulder. It's disturbingly easy to carry him to the bedroom. He barely weighs a thing.

There he tugs at the sheets with his free-hand, holding him tight with the other arm. Lowers him carefully, slips him under the sheets.

Shishido keeps clinging for just a moment longer. Long enough to mumble a hoarse, "Thanks."

Ohtori tucks him in, decides to call a doctor if he isn't at least a little better tomorrow, after a long rest. Walks out of the room with his mind on possible medicines. 

Just before he can step through the door, Shishido adds a sleepy, "… like you."

Pausing, Ohtori smiles to himself.

Not that he likes Shishido to be sick, but this is a side he doesn't get to see a lot.

 

Thank god Shishido always believes himself to have hallucinated most of what he does and says during his illness.

But Ohtori remembers.


	14. DAY 14 ~ SNOW PG-13

It is minus fuck knows how many degrees, his nose is leaking, his feet are wet and  _cold_  and they really, really, really should be heading home -to warmth.  
  
But it is snowing, thick fat flakes and everything is blanketed under it. Still white and pure, as fresh layers keep falling, piling high enough Shishido has trouble walking, not to mention running, which really sucks because Choutarou is advancing on him, hands full of snow. Shishido scampers in between some trees, but knows that in the long run this isn't going to do him much good. His partner really is at an advantage: a good chunk of his height is in his legs and whereas Shishido sinks into it almost up to knees, Choutarou has a few centimeters extra there, just enough to walk. Shishido trips and hitches through it and alright, yeah, he's the dumbass who insisted on wearing jeans. There are clots of snow packed into the coarse fabric, soaking it and it  _weighs_ … and he really is in deep shit.  
  
The first snowball catches him on his left shoulder - _oompf_ \- a definite Choutarou kinda shot, hard and fast. He's close and gaining.  
  
The second catches him in the back of his knee, unbalancing him. Right behind him.  
  
The third is poised at the nape of his neck. Choutarou got him.  
  
"I yield!" Shishido pants quickly. Enough. Before long he'll be a walking icicle, he doesn't need that snowball down his back.  
  
Snow kisses his skin. Shishido yelps and looks over his shoulder. Choutarou would look… well, ridiculously adorable, what with his cheeks and nose red from the cold and the thick multi-colored knit hat and matching shawl. Cute, if it weren't for that serious look of his. Even funnier that between the two of them Choutarou is the only one aptly dressed for the occasion, but for one detail: gloves. His hands are a livid red clutch around the icy ball.  
  
"You murdered my snowman," he says. His breath clouds in the air between them.  
  
Shishido rolls his eyes. "I… just gave him a face-lift," he holds up his gloved hands, makes a small space between his thumb and index finger. "Just a small one."  
  
There's a distinct dribble of melting slush tricking into his collar. Shishido hisses and then shivers when Choutarou whispers into his ear: "You chopped off his head."  
  
"It was for the greater good!" Shishido insists and then squirms frantically as a clump of less melted snow slides down his neck. "FUCK DON'T! I-I-I'll make it up to you!"  
  
The pressure lessens.  
  
Shishido breathes in relief. Dammit, Choutarou doesn't kid when he's out for revenge. And all that for a goddamn snowman.  
  
Only after there's the distinct soft crunch of the packed-tight ball breaking through the softer snow on the ground, does he turn around.  
  
Choutarou arches an eyebrow. "You will. How?" he states more than asks. His tough guy act would be more convincing if he wasn't trying to rub his own hands warm, both of them red as though scalded with boiling water.  
  
Shishido frowns. Takes of his gloves.  
  
"Yeah," he says. Both of them recognize the change in his voice, one word, still rough and graceless, but something in Choutarou's face softens as Shishido reaches for those red hands.  
  
There's a small hiss of pain/pleasure as Shishido closes his own warm ones around Choutarou's, too small compared to his partner's to cover them properly. The fingers stick out of his clasp, looking awful and too lived, so Shishido lowers his head and breathes on them. It can't be good that they are so cold, like icicles, and the next logical step is using his mouth.   
  
One by one he takes them between his lips and heck, yeah, that can't be really hygienic or whatever, but he doesn't quite care. Especially not when Choutarou's first reaction is absolute silence, almost tense because the heat of his mouth on his frozen hands will hurt some, but then there's a small intake of air.  
  
Shishido grins, looks up through his lashes and quite demonstratively opens his mouth wider, to swallow the finger whole. Sucks. Slowly. Intently. Makes sure to use he tongue when he pulls back, adds a wet smack as he lets it go.   
  
"Like this?" he suggests.  
  
"Uhm." Choutarou stares. His face is redder than before. "I. Ah. Uh-"  
  
"Home?" Shishido offers.  
  
"Yes!" Choutarou nods quickly, catches on to his overzealous reaction and adds a sheepish: "Please."  
  
"Alright," Shishido agrees. He laces his fingers with Choutarou's as they tromp through the park towards the civilized world again.  
  
He doesn't really mind paying for his crimes. Not like that.  
  
Besides.  
  
It's for the greater good, right?


	15. DAY 15 ~ SLIPPERY BUSINESS R

"This okay?" Choutarou murmurs against his neck.  
  
Large hands kneed his shoulders. Shishido sighs, feels his muscles being eased out of the knots they've been in all day. Steam rises off the hot water, the salts rouse him even as they soothe him. Against his back, Choutarou is warm and slippery and  _naked_. Oh yeah. It doesn't get much better than this.  
  
He is tired and cranky. At least he was. But then Choutarou ran a bath and took off their clothes and washed him, gentle and calm. After rinsing he put him in bath and joined him. And now he's naked. And touching him.  
  
"Yeah," Shishido hums. "Better now."  
  
"You are?"   
  
"I am." Shishido confirms. He knows he's an ass when he's cranky. So he's double as grateful to Choutarou, for the both of them. He'd rather be naked in bath with him, than being a jerk and ruining an evening.   
  
"But you're not smiling," Choutarou murmurs. Voice slips a little lower, concerned.  
  
Hands slide down his bare arms and then slip around his torso from behind. Fingers skitter over his ribs.  
  
Shishido jolts.  
  
Water sloshes over the edge of the tub.  
  
"Oi," he says. Peers over his shoulder.  
  
"Hmmm?" Choutarou goes absently. He mouths along the slope of Shishido's shoulder.  
  
After a moment of frowning at him, he relaxes, leans back again. Choutarou's chest is broad and comfortable and just right to rest his head into the curve of that neck. Lips nudge kisses into his hair. Beads of water slide down Choutarou's face onto his own, trail through his hair, down his scalp and trickle around the shell of his ear. Under the water, fingers trail up and down his ribs, fluttery, slightly ticklish. Shishido is caught on the edge of squirming under the sensation.  
  
Choutarou digs his fingers in.  
  
Shishido yelps, surges forward, sends a small tsunami over the side and protests. Loudly. " _CHOUTAROU_!" he gasps. Chokes. Fingers dance over his sides. He struggles and slips further into the water. More goes over the side. "Stop it!"  
  
"Smile for me," Choutarou says.   
  
Shishido elbows him, tries to poke him back. But he's caught between two arms and two legs and Choutarou is tickling him and Shishido can't control his body, can't even yank his hands away because… because….  
  
He wheezes, flails.  
  
Fingers climb up higher, up to the delicate part between the top of his ribs and his armpits and press and swipe and- and-  
  
Shishido doubles over and starts laughing.  
  
On the same breath he starts cursing and threatening Choutarou as well. It doesn't help, or Choutarou isn't feeling particularly cowed by it, because he just keeps tiptoeing his fingertips over Shishido's sides, until he's a crumpled helpless heap in those selfsame arms.  
  
"Oh fuck- st-stop it -oh damn- Chou-aah!" and he keeps laughing, from the center of his stomach, hard and exhausting until tears run down his cheeks.  
  
Choutarou runs his hands one last time down his ribs, making Shishido convulse and cry out a harsh sort of sound that might be part laugh and part yell. Then he hugs him close, crossing his arms over his chest in a snug band and kisses his cheek.  
  
"That's better," he says against his skin.  
  
Shishido is boneless. What the massage didn't do,  _that_  certainly did. He feels like a limp noodle. "You asshole," he grumbles, panting.  
  
"Hm," Choutarou says. There's a more insistent kiss, lower, near the corner of his mouth. "You feel good."  
  
His brows rise. With the last of his energy, he scoots back.  _Ah_. He rolls his eyes. "Well. Do you  _like_  me slippery and wriggling in your lap, huh, Choutarou?"  
  
A small noise. He hides his face into Shishido's hair. Most likely he's blushing his ass off, despite the fact that they're naked and in bath and are touching and have  _had_  a lot of sex. A LOT. Not to mention they've gotten up to riskier stuff than fooling around bathtub. Choutarou doesn't make sense. Doing it is okay.  _Saying_  it, for that matter…  
  
Despite his uncoordinated muscles and weariness, he turns around. The tub squeaks as his skin slips on the bottom. Choutarou's cheeks are red and he's biting his lower lip. His eyes are dark and shy.  
  
Oh damn.  
  
What was it he did to deserve this person?  
  
Shishido reaches for Choutarou's face and kisses his mouth, softly. Pulls back. Up close, Choutarou's lashes are dark and spiked together and his eyes are brown, almost solid, but for where they glow deep in the irises, just a little. Drops of water slide down his face.   
  
He smiles and kisses him again. Murmurs, "Let's see if I can relax you," into Choutarou's parted mouth.  
  
  
By the end of it, there's more water on the floor than in the bath. It doesn't seem in a hurry to drain away either.  
  
Shishido hangs over the edge of the tub, now truly limp, and spent and mutters:  
  
"You're mopping that up." 


	16. DAY 16 ~ ROCK ON PG

As soon as he opens the door, he thinks,  _Mukahi-san is here_.  
  
Then:  _Ryou will be just about ready to add cold-blooded murder to today's do-to list._  
  
It puzzles him not to see an extra pair of shoes in the genkan, as well as the absence of either threats, yelling or complaining or both (Shishido is good at multitasking). The music is loud, very loud. It's a massive hit by a well-known boyband, he knows. It's got a catchy beat, if you want to call it that, as well as the usual tripe about love and emotion and whatnot. On top of that they are all very pretty boys, which will make it a recipe to be gobbled up by the girls, no matter that they can't really sing all that well. He's seen some of their clips, there's a lot of hip trusting, pouty lips and artfully tousled hair going on. And sparkles. Lots of sparkles.  
  
So he takes off his shoes, draws a steading breath. Work has been difficult, made more complicated than it ever should be by his useless colleagues, so he went home early. He'd been hoping to get some… intimacy in before they started dinner, but instead he has to deal with Mukahi-san and his awful,  _awful_  taste in… just about everything, actually. But mainly music.   
  
He drops his keys in the bowl and starts towards the kitchen, trying to plaster on a smile.   
  
The chorus starts, sparkly cheerful and unoriginal.  
  
Someone starts to sing along.  
  
If it was a cartoon, Ohtori's jaw would be on the floor, or even crash through the wooden paneling and emerge on the other side of the world to knock someone over the head. His eyes might be spinning and steam sprouting from his ears.  
  
There's just one person singing. Because there's only  _one_  in the house, besides him.  
  
Shishido.  
  
What. The. Hell.   
  
Not usually his line, but what the hell times twice doesn't even sum it up.  
  
He's heard Shishido singing, a handful of times. Under the shower sometimes, when he thinks Ohtori is a) not home or b) can't hear it. Ohtori sometimes even manages to manipulate him into it, playing a song on the piano that Shishido knows, rock guitar translated into the plink of ivory keys, and Shishido, thinking Ohtori to be too caught up in his playing, might sing along under his breath all sneaky-like.  
  
But this isn't sneaky. It is full-throated and all out and Ohtori is starting to laugh, stifled.  
  
Shishido has an amazing singing voice. He'd rather shoot himself in the foot than admit it, but he does, Ohtori loves to hear him sing, but this… It sounds way off, Shishido signing about… about…?  
  
 _So, look only at the me right in front of you  
Baby! Be My Baby! Yes, I'm crazy!  
Crazy for you_  
  
He's got to see this.  
  
As quiet as he can he sneaks towards the door of the kitchen. Peeks around the edge.  
  
It's one thing to hear Shishido sing it. Another to see him sing it. And quite another experience all together to see him singing into his spoon-cum-microphone, completely… giving it his all. Hair wild, half air-guitaring and half karaokeing, wearing the apron Oshitari gave him that says 'Come to the Dark Side, we have cookies' (which Shishido pretends not to like, but kind of does).   
  
Utterly and shamelessly… rocking out.  
  
Completely rocking out.  
  
Ohtori sneaks past the threshold, careful, but Shishido is so into it he probably wouldn't even notice if whatever he's preparing caught fire.  
  
 _Baby! Be My Baby! Yes, I'm crazy!  
Crazy for you_  
  
Ohtori pulls the cable. The music stops, abrupt, in the last  _swiiiziiing_  of the end.  
  
There's a terrible, naked silence.  
  
"Are you now?" Ohtori asks, managing to sound mildly curious instead of wanting to howl with the laughter he's attempting to keep back.  
  
Shishido doesn't move.  
  
Well, he drops his 'microphone'. It bounces of his bare foot and Ohtori can only be relieved he wasn't using a knife, or even a fork. But besides that, Shishido seems to have frozen solid.  
  
Or he might just have died on the spot of shame. Ohtori asks if he has.  
  
"I… might have," Shishido says. "I feel unwell. I might have to… go. Somewhere. The North pole should do it and-" he turns around, beet red "-if you ever, ever tell any living soul about this -especially Oshitari- but any living soul I will kill you. But especially not Oshitari. Or my brother. Or Atobe. ANYONE. If. If you do there will be lots of pain. And your body might never be found. Unless they go look for it in outer space. And then only the pieces that are left of it  _anddoImakemyselfclear_?!"  
  
"I don't know," Ohtori responds, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "What's in it for me besides not being eliminated?"  
  
If possible Shishido goes even redder. If looks could kill, Ohtori would be going into cardiac arrest presently. Not that he's particularly worried.  
  
"I don't suppose that you might consider putting on that other… uh, article of clothing Oshitari got you?" he asks.  
  
Shishido's chin goes up.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Ohtori blinks.  
  
"You get a head-start, Ohtori, cause I'm counting to five and then I'm coming after you with-" he looks around for a sharp, pointy object.  
  
"Why not try your microphone - _oops_ \- I meant spoo _oAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH_!"  
  
  
He might be throttled, but he's laughing too hard to care.


	17. DAY 17 ~ SOUVENIR PG-13

Airports are always busy.  
  
Even at five in the morning and with rain sluicing out of the steely gray skies outside. It creates for a morose and bittersweet parting and Shishido thinks that is only apt.  
  
There's about twelve of them, Choutarou included. All friends, most of them old teammates. His parents didn't come. Choutarou said he understood, that it was alright, but Shishido knows better.  
  
It's not alright.  
  
And standing there, watching everybody tell him goodbye -some grand and pompous like Atobe, some fiercely private like Hiyoshi- looks to Shishido as the most fucked-up thing he's ever had to witness. Cause these heartfelt words and moments are the beginning of the end, of Choutarou leaving.   
  
Shishido stands to the side, alone, and tries as hard as he can to remain calm and rational. He's the one who supported Choutarou through his steady and hard climb to this point and he's the one who urged him to grab this chance with both hands. Him. Shishido Ryou. Because he's Choutarou's best friend and he knows that if he lets his inherent selfishness win out and hold his partner back  _now_ , he'll never forgive himself.  
  
A golden opportunity.   
  
Choutarou is so talented.   
  
Still.  
  
It's not alright.  
  
He's last.  
  
Choutarou breaks away from his sister and looks over to him. Shishido nods. Almost he wishes that was it. This all-encompassing chuck of the chin and that's it. He's not sure he can keep himself together for both their sakes if Choutarou comes over, but in the end it doesn't matter. He wouldn't be able to let Choutarou get on that plane without holding him one last time.  
  
"Shishido-san," Choutarou says when he's standing before him. "Thank you."  
  
Shishido knows why. "Yeah," he says, lacking anything to say that can sum up everything that he's holding back. He's worried that if he talks he'll say it, the  _please don't go, don't go, don't go, don't go, don't go, what am I going to do without you, fuck, shit, don't go, please. Please._  
  
When Choutarou embraces him, it's fierce. Arms are hooked around him -hard and unyielding- and Shishido holds Choutarou back, sharp and painful. The chest his head is pressed against stutters on an exhale, the back his hands are splayed over shudders.   
  
"Don't," Shishido warns.  
  
"I-" Choutarou says, chokes.  
  
"Don't you want to go?" Shishido asks, muffled into the fabric of his jacket.  
  
"Yes. I do," Choutarou whispers. He sounds young and frightened. "But I don't want to leave."  
  
Shishido hugs him and leans into him, heart racing and mind drowning and for once doesn't give a flying fuck that they're in the middle of the airport. But his best friend is leaving and dammit, he's coming apart. He's got to be strong, let Choutarou go with a wholesome, accomplished feeling not a saddened and burdened one.  
  
When they finally pull back, Shishido is marginally cheered to see Choutarou has as much trouble with pulling away as he is having. Their fingers tangle, squeeze reassuringly and then, like a bucket of ice water down his back, separate.  
  
 _Don't go_. Shishido wants to say. Cry, scream, howl, yell, roar, plead, beg, take your pick.  
  
What he says is. "Goodbye."  
  
Choutarou looks at him, a strange look, considering and at odds with the situation. Then his arms hook behind his neck.  
  
"It's not forever," he says. A heavy swallow and then suddenly a cross dangles before Shishido's nose. "I will come back. Would… would you hold on to this for me? Please?"  
  
It's difficult. If Choutarou thinks he's helping  _he's not_  and Shishido half-wishes that he's just turn his arse around and leave. What the hell does he say to that, what the hell is he supposed to do, why the fucking hell is this so difficult?  
  
So he nods, a short and brusque move, and Choutarou's arms loop around him to put the necklace on. He closes the catch with knuckles brushing Shishido's nape. The chain is longish, hangs a little below the bracket of his collarbones. Choutarou touches it, almost fondly lingering on the silver cross, before slipping it into the neckline of his t-shirt. The metal slides warm against his skin, warm from Choutarou.  
  
After that, it blurs.  
  
Shishido can't get any more words to pass his lips, can't do anything other than stand there as they watch as Choutarou shoulders his bags -so little, almost as if he's leaving everything behind- and head for the check-in.  
  
The ride home is mostly silent. There's some wayward chatter, but Shishido slumps in the back and stares out through the window. Outside the world is cold-iron and wet, and water strokes like a solid sheet over the windshield. Shishido's mind is far away, back at the airport, trying to envision every single step Choutarou will be taking before he gets onto that trice-cursed plane.  
  
He doesn't say a word and nobody asks.   
  
They drop him off at his tiny, grubby apartment and Shishido gets out with barely a nod of thanks at Taki, their driver. The rain is freezing cold and heavy, but Shishido doesn't feel it as he walks up to the building. The stairs are endless and he lives on the top-most floor, but he doesn't care. The key strains in the lock and it takes him five minutes to open his own damn front door, but it doesn't matter.  
  
Inside, he takes his shoes of. He hangs his soaked jacket on the hook, drops his keys on the table. Pets his dog. Turns on the heater, takes off his wet t-shirt. Sits down on the ground before the heater.  
  
Breathes in.   
  
 _Now_ , he tell himself.  
  
He starts to cry.  
  
It's unsightly and useless, but at least he's quiet about it. Just head in his hands with tears leaking between his fingers and down his arms, where his dog licks them up, wagging her tail with anxiety and compassion.  
  
He cries for a long time.  
  
Every time he thinks it's passed it'll start all over again and by the end of it he's like a wrung out washcloth. He lies on the floor before the heater, the dog pressed against his back and her wet nose snuffling worry at his ear.   
  
 _I haven't even told him I love him_ , Shishido thinks.  
  
Then he remembers the cross. His hand closes around it the way Choutarou's have so, so, so many times before. The metal is warm and smooth, soft-edged yet hard angles in his palm. The cross Choutarou has worn for as long as anybody could remember, the cross he never took off, the cross the both of them spend seven hours tracking down in the tall grass around the street-courts because it got lost there. The cross that's become so much a part of Choutarou that he's not quite himself without it around his neck.  
  
 _Maybe_ , he thinks.  _I didn't need to_.  
  
The warmth of the heater is soothing, but dries his tears to an itching stretch on his cheeks. Inwardly he promises himself that when Choutarou comes to collect his cross, Shishido will give him something, some part that is him and that is only his. He rubs the pad of his thumb along the silver and wonders where Choutarou is, whether he's up in the sky already, and whether he misses Shishido as much and as badly as he is missing him.  
  
  
  
On the airplane, an old lady offers and uncommonly tall young man her kerchief.


	18. DAY 18 ~ FETISH NC-17

It starts with Choutarou's mouth.  
  
Or, actually, maybe just with a look.  
  
What does it  _matter_ , anyway?  
  
Just an evening like most others, nothing special or unusual about it. They had dinner, done their usual exchange of news and fun facts during it, after which Shishido finished up some stuff for his classes while Choutarou rocked out on his piano. Nothing special. Nothing in particular that Shishido can blame for being as worked up as he is, nothing understandable like seeing Choutarou without his shirt (even though yeah, getting a major turn on from just getting an above-the-waist glimpse is pretty lame, but hey, fuck it, it's useless to resist and all -he should know).  
  
Choutarou is leaning into him as they watch TV, low enough that his head is just above Shishido's lap, resting his lower stomach. It's an ideal position to fingercomb and pet, which should've been it. But then half-way through a movie (a pretty good one, at that) Shishido glimpsed down at him, just to find Choutarou's eyes already on him and, well, dammit,  _that_  got his attention.  
  
It wasn't really sexual then. Just looking at each other, kinda smiling, Shishido's hand sliding down out of his hair to trace over that familiar face. Basically being stupidly, shamelessly in love and  _enjoying_  it and anybody that had something disparaging to say about it could go and fuck themselves, because Choutarou just made something screw up tight in his chest like he was gonna cry, only it was good, unbelievably good.  
  
Anyway.  
  
His hand was on Choutarou's cheek a moment ago (nice 'n sweet) and just now his thumb traced along that bottom lip and fucking hell if that didn't… didn't… well, turn him on something bad.  
  
So there he is, hot and bothered from Choutarou's mouth, kinda out of the blue.  
  
His  _mouth_.  
  
And what a nice mouth he has on him, Shishido reaffirms. Especially when he strokes the pad of his thumb over it again, watching his those lips drag along under the motion and the feel of them, full and warm and soft. Unable to help himself he does it again, from right to left, sure and slow, but halfway through Choutarou parts his lips and heat from the inside of his mouth slipping through… oh man.   
  
He closes his eyes.  
  
He's not a damn teenager anymore. He should be able to sit on the damn couch and watch some fucking TV, touching Choutarou whilst keeping his goddamn dick in his pants, right?  
  
Dammit.  
  
Knuckles brush his chin.  
  
Shishido blinks.  
  
"Come here," Choutarou murmurs, tugging his head lower.  
  
He dips his head and Choutarou leans up, so they meet in the middle. They kiss.  
  
Without talking, they can tell each other so damn much.  
  
Just lips and yet Shishido can feel it, the rising need from Choutarou. It's not even meeting halfway. Choutarou beckons him and then draws him in, warm and needy and eyes that are solid black with want.  
  
It is only natural -cause and effect and, well,  _them_ , since they are a law of nature all by themselves- that they end up in bed. Not that Shishido isn't all for sex on the couch, but Choutarou is  _tall_  and it works better the other way around.  
  
Cause and effect sounds more fancy, but Shishido admits that the husky ' _make love to me_ ', complete with fierce blush and steady gaze is what actually had him all but drag Choutarou to the bedroom before their actual bedtime.  
  
Not that there is any dragging to be done.  
  
Choutarou is willing.  
  
His clothes come off faster than Shishido can keep track of, as do his own and before he can properly roll the knowledge of this around in his mouth they are naked together.  
  
Shishido admits to having a strong preference for 'afternoon' (or middle of the day) sex. He loves it best because that is the most spontaneous of love making. Not that bedtime-sex and morning-sex are lesser, or not as good. Dammit, sex is sex and he loves it, because it's Choutarou and damn amazing at all times.  
  
But this feels like it, like afternoon-sex, because it is barely nine in the evening and they can't wait any longer, can't keep it contained. And like afternoon-sex, it is honest and raw on top of the sheets, with the blinds undrawn and admitting yellow glow from the streetlights in the Tokyo-alive night.  
  
It is Choutarou under him, head canted back and voice throbbing as Shishido touches him.  
  
There are no words for this.  
  
No words to express just how alive Choutarou can make him feel. Or how the sight of him under him and legs spread and hands reaching… It makes Shishido feel invincible, like nothing he can describe, that Choutarou  _wants_  this. Difference in physique and some sort of natural dynamic makes it that Choutarou is usually the… aggressor, wrong though that word sounds in his head, because Choutarou is nothing like that. There is no 'boss' between them. But he feels so damn grateful that Choutarou asks for this, himself, without Shishido needing to hint at it or worse…  _ask_ it and have it granted out of pity or misplaced endearment.  
  
That they can be together, like this, Choutarou spread out underneath him and wanting, coming undone with his head canted back on the bed, body loose yet braced to receive Shishido deep and true, one hand tangled in the sheets and the other a painful and positively demanding clutch in Shishido's hair.  
  
They can't kiss.  
  
Choutarou is too damn tall.  
  
Instead Shishido lowers his head until his forehead rests in the middle of Choutarou's chest and gathers all his concentration to the amazing sensation of being inside of him, the rise and fall of their bodies, of making Choutarou come apart with pleasure. He takes care to angle himself, to push deep, and there's Choutarou's thighs wrapped around his hips to help him, extra leverage that slides him harder and more acute inside of his partner than he'd truly intended to.  
  
"Careful," Shishido murmurs.  
  
Choutarou's eyes open, mere slits. His body shines with perspiration and his brows are a picture of what seems like excruciating pain, but is pure pleasure, lips parted, chest rising, hips moving.  
  
"Don't stop," he says. Fingers tighten in Shishido's hair, cradle his head to a galloping heartbeat. "Please."  
  
He leans, hears the steady thrumming, and  _moves_ , body hard and merciless. There's sweat under his lips when his mouth falls open and the rough, sweet  _ah_!'s Choutarou makes when he slams in as deep as he can in his ears. He can smell Choutarou, musky desire and sweat, as well as himself, feel the hot possessive cling of his body and see _him_ , Choutarou, loving every single damn minute of being fucked by him.  
  
It's that.  
  
But it is also what Choutarou asked of him… love making, because Shishido doesn't honestly know how else to do this, not without everything he feels for Choutarou poured into the very act, not without gathering him as close as he can until only their very skin keeps them from melting together.  
  
Choutarou moans and rises up to him, hips snapping to meet his and Shishido kisses him where he can, which is pressing his lips repeatedly over the flutter of his heartbeat in his chest.  
  
Thankfully he manages to outlast Choutarou, just long enough that he can tear his mouth away from where he's been suckling at the pulse point in that broad chest. Just in time to see him thrummed out on so much pleasure and sensation that he goes wide and pure, all for Shishido and because of him and the sight of that is all he needs to follow him over the brink.  
  
He kisses Choutarou's cheeks after, touches his mouth, his body. The tips of his fingers and the corner of his mouth. They cradle one other and breathe, and Shishido feels like he's just succeed at life.  
  
  
  
It starts with Choutarou's mouth.  
  
Or maybe just a look.  
  
  
But they end together.


	19. DAY 19 ~ ICE FLAKES PG-13

"Ready senpai?"   
  
Ryouka scowls down at her feet. Her legs look twice as stick-like than normal with those skates attached to them, not to mention she's likely to get frostbite on her junk after an hour of hovering above  _ice_  in a fucking  _skirt_.  
  
So no, dammit, she isn't ready.   
  
"Senpai?"  
  
"Tch," Ryouka closes her eyes. She can do this. She has to do this. It is either this, in a skirt but with Shouta by her side, or having to admit to Keiko tomorrow that she's never ice-skated before. "Fine. Let's get this over with."  
  
Ryouka stands. Or at least that's what she intends to. But the skates sit unwieldy and strange around her feet and she wobbles.   
  
Shouta grabs her bicep. "Careful," she exclaims.  
  
The sudden, sharp pull down the center of her chest and into the pit of her stomach isn't unfamiliar anymore. Nevertheless Ryouka's heart hammers, choking and hard while her body tingles. Her cheek is on fire where a long lock of fair hair brushed against it.   
  
She pushes away. "Let's just…" she mumbles and then hobbles towards the rink.  
  
Decidedly more gracefully, Shouta follows.  
  
Besides two couples who are more intend on sucking face and a fanatic old man tearing around the outer edge, there's not a soul. Small mercies. Practice ran late, no slacking off even when exams are right around the corner, and neither of them had time to head home to don a rather more practical outfit. Ryouka isn't even standing  _on_  the ice when she feels the cold breathe up against her bare thighs.   
  
Shouta steps onto the rink first and Ryouka notes with not a little sourness that those woolen thighs she always wears really are a smart move. Especially in winter.   
  
A hand is offered. For the first time Ryouka looks up and into her face. Which she knows is dumb, because looking at Shouta's face is the worst. Granted, there was a lot about Shouta that made Ryouka feel equal parts fascinated and grubby. On the one hand she is obsessed: the urge to stare at and observe Shouta is driving her absolutely fucking mad, but it washes down with a bitter aftertaste of always feeling rather… inadequate. Shouta is beautiful. She's tall and willowy, slender with generous curves (and a cup-size that is the envy of the whole changing room, because let's face it, Shouta's  _stacked_ ), long legs and clever hands. Delicate hands, they look like, yet they still hit the most fucking awesome serve on the whole high school circuit. Her body is gorgeous. But her face… oh man.  
  
Dark eyes are serious as they watch Ryouka stall and the full mouth is slightly pursed in worry. From under he off-white cream hat, her long fair tumbles over and around her shoulders, thick and wavy. The line of her jaw is just so, just perfect to be cradled and her cheeks slightly flushed from the cold.  
  
"Ready?" she asks.  
  
Ryouka breathes in. Takes her hand and carefully steps onto the ice. One foot. Then the other. Shouta's hand is firm and reassuring. For a moment they stand there, Ryouka wincing inwardly at the cold (definitely frostbite) and how stupid she must look, a scrawny girl almost two heads smaller with scab-rough knees, hanging on to the hand of her gorgeous best friend as though it'll save her ass from kissing the ice.  
  
A deep inhale and then she nods. "Yeah, ready."  
  
Slowly, Shouta skates backwards and gently pulls her along. It goes great, they are about halfway, until Shouta says urgently: "Feet straight!"  
  
And that's all before Ryouka's skates connect, she trips, pin-wheels and falls onto her behind, mostly likely flashing everybody who'd been looking a nice panty-shot (or, rather, a shorts shot, thank hell).  
  
Over the course of the the next hour, Ryouka thinks she must be setting a new record for how badly one can suck at ice-skating. It looks so easy, Shouta glides around without looking, long legs weaving her forward without any mishaps. In contrast, Ryouka is covered in ice shavings, has opened more than half of the scabs on her left knee and all on her right, added some nice bruises to her hands and still can't make it further than two glides before doing yet another belly slide.  
  
"Che," she grumbles. "Lame."  
  
She's gonna make a fool of herself tomorrow.  
  
The rink is deserted. The clerk at the skate rental booth is yawning and reading yesterday's newspaper. And Ryouka still can't skate.  
  
Shouta comes back towards her from doing a few circles herself, unburdened by her this time, and slides to a sharp and precise stop. The tip of her nose is pink and the lights around the rink dance in her eyes. Ryouka's heart takes another bruise to it, since she's already so well on her way everywhere else, so why not.  
  
"Alright?" Shouta asks her. Long fingers pick some wayward strands of hair from her face.   
  
Ryouka shrugs. Her teeth clatter. Her knees ache and her back aches and her heart aches and her butt is cold and she really, really sucks at ice-skating.  
  
"Been better," she mutters. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong, I keep getting… tangled."  
  
A small line pops up between Shouta's brows as she mulls it over. "I think I know why," she says after a moment. "Take my hands." She sticks them out and Ryouka, after a slight hesitation, takes them. Slowly, Shouta pushes off, backwards, towing Ryouka along.   
  
Her legs wobble and her skates slide towards one other.  
  
"Look at me," Shouta says suddenly.  
  
Automatically, Ryouka does, only to meet her gaze head-on. So looks to the side, awkward.  
  
"No, look at me," Shouta repeats. "Please?"  
  
This time, despite turning a little red as she maintains the forced eye-contact, Ryouka looks at her. Keeps looking at her. Notes, for so umpteenth time, the curve of her mouth, the slope of her nose. The thick, dark lashes around the large eyes. The surprising serious looking brows. The curve of her cheeks and the angle of her forehead, the fair, flawless skin. The even white teeth. The long, shining hair, almost like spun snow itself. So beautiful.  
  
"Well done!" Shouta says, snapping Ryouka out of the daze she was slipping into.  
  
"Huh?" Ryouka blinks. Notices they're at the other side of the rink. Without falling down. "What the-"  
  
"It's because you focussed to hard on what you were thinking you should be doing, instead of just… ah, doing it," Shouta tells her. "Back to the other side?"  
  
Ryouka nods.   
  
Shouta turns them and they go again. Ryouka lets herself shamelessly ogle her best friend and gets pulled along, at least, until half-way through. Shouta lets go, but stays in front of her. "Keep going," she encourages.  
  
Suddenly it's a piece of cake. All by herself she increases speed, makes a slight turn, circling. Ryouka tosses her head back and laughs, disbelieving. Un-fucking-believable. Relieved, she looks up at Shouta, who's kept up pace and is still skating backwards in front of her.  
  
Shouta smiles, sweet, but suddenly shy when Ryouka keeps looking, almost like a challenge. Her cheeks flush even darker and she bites her lip. Ryouka starts to grin, a little, and full-out when Shouta looks away, down between them to break the intimate contact.  
  
And trips.  
  
On pure instinct Ryouka grabs her, before she can keel over flat on her back. The two of them careen out of control and skid for a breathtaking moment, before coming to a standstill clutching at each other. For a heartbeat they keep perfectly still and then Ryouka realizes that that heartbeat is quite literally under her cheek and she's all but face-first pillowed between Shouta's breasts and Shouta is sort of clutching her hips in return, one on the modest curve of them, the other on her bare thigh where her skirt as ridden up.  
  
Their faces are inches apart.  
  
Ryouka's heart turns itself over in her chest, acute and painful.  
  
Shouta doesn't pull away. She leans in, even closer. Something on her mouth, like snow, cold and a little damp. Soft and ethereal, like the long white hairs caught onto her eyelashes that aren't hers.  
  
She can only blink and stare and wonder whether the hell she just went crazy.   
  
But Shouta does it again. Surer and longer, and her mouth is a little warmer after a moment. Ryouka can only fist her hands into the fabric of Shouta's coat and think wildly that she's being kissed, kissed by a girl, kissed by her best friend, being kissed for the first time in her life, in the middle of an ice-rink.  
  
Shouta's lips are soft, smooth and she knows her own are chapped by the cold, but when they kiss, it doesn't matter. Shouta kisses her, soft and over and over again, presses of their mouths together, and by the end of it she's holding Ryouka's face and is smiling, looking happier than ever and Ryouka wonders if she really glows like she feels she's doing, like a star going supernova.  
  
  
The walk home is made in silence. There are lingering looks and under the cover of the dark in the park, Shouta holds her hand. She holds it like it is something delicate, something wonderful and precious.  
  
Once more, Shouta kisses her. It's still sweet, still kinda chaste, but there's more behind it and from they way she holds Ryouka's waist, it's a tide of feelings as strong and urgent as her own. Her lips are slightly damp from the warm nips on them, the lingering nudges and caresses, the warm breath. It's just that, little presses and left-and-right slicks, letting the natural curves and grooves in their lips catch and spark fire down their spines. Ryouka has her hands full of thick hair where's she's buried them in the nape of Shouta's neck and kneads restlessly, pressing up and forward.   
  
They pull back but don't let go. Shouta is all smiles hidden into Ryouka's dark hair and Ryouka leans into her, the generous curve of those breasts against her throat. They stand and embrace in the shadows of the tall trees.  
  
"Thanks," she whispers.  
  
Shouta has to clear her throat. A few times. "You're welcome."  
  
"You know what?" Ryouka says. "I kinda like ice-skating."   
  
  
Shouta smiles, hugs her closer. "Me, too."


	20. DAY 20 ~ BRAND NEW DAY PG-13

Disciplined and harsh, his training has been.  
  
He can go without want, or rather need, of food for days. He  _has_  gone days without food many times before. However Shishido needs to eat -and soon- or perish by the wayside like a starved mongrel.   
  
Not for the first time does he doubt his choice to live in dishonor, instead of following his comrades into death by their own blades. Yet he feels the acid burn of the betrayal, that their daimyo played them out like so much as fodder, leading them into the unknown and leaving them there to be slaughtered. It is a samurai's duty to be loyal to their lord, whatever his wishes. But Shishido feels the cold knowledge that Tachibana, the daimyo who has scattered his men and drenched the clean earth with their blood, was more honorable and right than his own lord.   
  
Perhaps he should just have taken Tachibana's generous permission to pass on in honor -that or join forces with him-, but instead here he is: exhausted, starved, disgraced.   
  
A ronin.  
  
Many times before have he and his comrades ridiculed those whose position he is in now. The memory of it is bittersweet, of better times and ignorance.  
  
The hunger.   
  
He knows better, can ignore it and function despite it, but the fact remains that he needs to eat, today, or won't live to see tomorrow's setting sun.  
  
In his current predicament tomorrow's future seems dire indeed: days of forests and fields behind him, days of forests and fields ahead of him. His speciality of traveling almost as fast as a mounted warrior has sealed his own fate, for now he is caught stranded, surrounded by nature as a green grave. If he had his full strength he might be able to reach a settlement in time. Now his only hope is to endure and see what the road brings.  
  
As he passes along the dwindling trail out of the forest and into the glow of the day's last sun, he breathes in… out.  
  
Death for him.   
  
Before him and for as far as he can see is long, swaying grass. Like an ocean as vast, with the wind bending the blades like silvery waves.  
  
Shishido closes his eyes, inhales. Promises himself that with his last strength he will take his own life, instead of dropping like a useless sack of flesh when his legs give out.  
  
He is a ronin, masterless. There is no-one to give him the mercy of a clean, honorable death.  
  
But for himself.  
  
Despite the strength leaving him, he is quick and relentless. He crosses through the fields fast and soundless, enough so that he reaches a smaller pocket of trees in a valley, where he intends to set up camp. Or rather, sleep with the stars as his blanket.  
  
As he roams the edges of the thicket, he sees  _him_.  
  
In an instant, instinct honed by years of training and experience, Shishido blends with his surroundings.  
  
Is he closer to a settlement than he thought? Has his hunger and sadness impaired his wits and has he strayed into another clan's lands? Further east than he originally thought?  
  
The other is samurai and of noble status. Definitely of higher ranking than he was -and ever would be. Richly dressed. Carrying supplies. Yet there is  _something_  odd about him, in how he moves and holds himself, and Shishido is appalled by the man's hair color and size.  
  
A veritable giant, with hair as fair like sun on the water.  
  
Wounded.  
  
Badly.  
  
This is his chance.  
  
Shishido centers himself, draws on his last resources which he has preserved to carry him until the next sunset. Enough to strike a killing blow, he knows.  
  
He will not die like this, not without regaining some measure of honor, not with his comrades' agonized screams as they were led to their deaths like so much as cattle by their daimyo still ringing in his ears.  
  
It must be Fate, for why else is he destined to meet a wounded warrior out here, where only nature reigns?  
  
The wound must be bad, for the man does not even make into the pocket of trees before he sinks down into the grass in a death faint.  
  
Nevertheless, Shishido is careful. He circles, like a great cat that stalks its prey, crossing through the grass silent as a shadow, unseen. He cuts over the man's path, sees the thick and glaring red of life's blood coating the grass.   
  
Should be easy.  
  
He's standing over his victim, feeling better for the knowledge that he might ease this warrior's passing instead of being a cold-hearted murderer.  
  
Not that he can sink much lower.  
  
Like a great cat once more, he rushes his target, all his praised speed and agility flowing forth as he draws his blade and then strokes down -swift and merciful- to behead the man that lies there dying.  
  
Great is his surprise when his blade sings in fury as honed steel meets steel.  
  
 _Not quite as death as he looked_ , Shishido thinks as he looks into dark eyes, narrowed under fiercely knitted brows.  
  
 _Yet…_  
  
There's great strength in him, but it is waning, as fast as the red flow of blood that leaks out of the gaping wound near the man's ribs. One other stroke and he would be dead by Shishido's blade. He knows it and the man knows it, too.  
  
What stills his hand he does not know, because what is the purpose if they are both as good as dead anyway and can only benefit from the other's passing? Yet their blades keen sweetly against one other as he withdraws his own. Not completely, he points the tip at the warrior's breast and he can see in the other's eyes that they both know that his next lunge will be true and the end of this strange meeting.  
  
His eyes flit over his opponents face. Marvels at how impossibly fast the drawing of his katana had been, too fast for his eyes to see, too fast for anybody to counter, he realizes. Such a strange physique. The hair is whiter still viewed this close and so tall he is, two heads larger than himself, Shishido guesses. Broad chest, more muscled, stronger than him without question -had he been in full health.  
  
But besides the unparalleled speed of his iaijutsu, Shishido knows he outclasses him in terms of experience and pace in combat.  
  
Then he sees the mon on his hoari: a snow crystal.  
  
Hyotei.  
  
Interesting.  
  
His eyes wander to the wound in the man's side. Possibly lethal. Not beyond his skills.  
  
"Your name?" he demands.  
  
"Not worthy to ears such as yours, ronin," the samurai answers.  
  
Shishido chuckles. "It is my sword at your throat, as you might have noticed. Give me your name -and half of your provisions, and I will ease your injuries well enough that you will be able to carry your knowledge to your lord, Atobe."  
  
Dark eyes widen, blink.  
  
 _Oh, but he is young_ , Shishido notes and shakes his head. Tall and strong he might be, but he is younger and much, much more inexperienced. Un-honed, raw talent.  
  
"Guard your emotions, man." He sighs as he sheathes his sword. "Had I still served a master, your head would have been parted from your shoulders by now."   
  
"Don't be so sure of that," the other says, defiant. But then he coughs and red blood spills from his lips.  
  
"Is the news you carry of such importance?" Shishido wonders out loud. "You seem in quite a hurry. Such a shame that wound will prevent you from performing your duty."  
  
There is a short silence as the other gathers breath and strength to reply.  
  
"I will complete my mission," he says, clear and true. "This injury is nothing."  
  
" _Nothing_  will prevent you from crossing this field," Shishido says, arching a brow. "That is what I think."  
  
More silence, and red sunlight as it bleeds over the edge of the earth. Everything glows, the person at his feet included.  
  
"A deal then," Shishido purposes. "I will bind your wounds and guarantee your success, if you yield enough of your ration to carry me to the next settlement. What say you?"  
  
"You are ronin," is the weak reply. "You are without honor. Your word means nothing."  
  
At that, Shishido bares his teeth. "Think carefully. My word will let you keep your honor, samurai. Take it or die here -not by my sword, for I will simply  _take_  your supplies and leave carrion eaters to feast on your living flesh."  
  
A deep, shuddering inhale. "Your word."  
  
"My word," Shishido says.  
  
The sun sinks under the horizon. The sky is purple and blue with stars far in the distance. The grass sways.  
  
"…my name," the samurai says softly, pain enunciating every single word despite his brave attempts to mask it, "… is Ohtori Choutarou. I carry a... message for my lord Atobe."  
  
"I am Shishido Ryou," Shishido says. "I am my own master, for I saw my comrades die by the blade of one more honorable than my own daimyo. I will help you."  
  
  
  
The rise of the sun sees Shishido standing in its glow, watching Ohtori leave.  
  
A whole night was spend wrestling  _his_  life from death's claws, more than he bargained for and the knowledge Ohtori carried -and his life- much more worth than the sustenance he demanded in return.  
  
Shishido breathes in the smell of green grass and the new day, tastes the reality of Ohtori's life on his tongue -for he will live beyond the completion of his current purpose, Shishido saw to that- and the realization that he, too, is beyond death's clutches.  
  
 _Atobe is gathering a great force to him. Men like you… he is willing to give a chance. You can regain honor._  
  
Ohtori's life's blood is still caked under his fingernails. He will live and survive -but he is weak, and there are those between Ohtori and his goal that are not even ronin, but simply cut-throats and thieves who will see Ohtori for what he can truly mean. Wealth of his life sold to the highest bidder.  
  
He may walk, but that wound will rip him apart as soon as he raises his sword arm to defend himself.  
  
  
  
At high noon, when Ohtori is but at speck in the distance, Shishido takes the knife he carries -the same knife he intended to commit seppuku with at the sunset of this selfsame dawning day- and uses it to cut his long, dark hair with.  
  
The tassel is thick and full of tangles in his hand. The keen edge slices through the strands neatly and they fall to his feet, forgotten.  
  
Shorn, reborn as the the sun is, Shishido follows Ohtori at a distance, determined to see both of their purposes to a successful end.


	21. DAY 21 ~ HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS R

White and oval-shaped, barely enough to pool in the center of his palm. Five of them. They look like candy, almost. The plain sugar kind.  
  
Yet Ohtori knows that this isn't good, that this isn't normal. Not bad or dangerous, not yet, but certainly not normal. One should be more than enough. It was enough more than enough five years ago. Now he needs five, one for every year that fades. He takes them with a glass of water, swallows painfully to get them down.  
  
What else can he do?  
  
He needs to be onstage in less than fifteen minutes and the headache pounds so bad he can't concentrate. Everything is blurry and every single sound rattles painfully against the insides of is skull, even the sweet keen of his own violin. It is not nerves. Not anymore. The headache plagues him day in, day out. He's strong enough to bear the pain at any other occasion, but when he needs to perform, he has to do something. After all, close to three thousand seats -all sold out- are filled with enthusiasts to hear and see him play. Ohtori isn't about to let them down. As always, he will do his best. If he cringes at the thrill of his own playing, he won't be able to.  
  
So he takes the pills, hopes they kick in fast. Always he waits nearly too long to take them, ever hopeful the headache will dissipate under the fluttering butterflies that wreak havoc in the pit of his belly. After five years he should know better, should know the headache will continue to batter inside of his head, no matter what. Hope can be foolish and he doesn't want to be  _that_  person, the person who swallows medicaments as though they truly were candy.  
  
But he has to play and in less than ten minutes at that.  
  
Ohtori strokes the gleaming violin with his fingertips and wonders when this became his job instead of his passion. Oh, he  _knows_. He just doesn't want to recognize it. If he does he'll have another concert hall filled with bawling people, because the memory and truth will ring true in his music. At least he's still powerful enough to move people to tears, if he wishes to. He doesn't. He wants people to rejoice in his art, not mourn like he does.  
  
In less than five minutes he'll walk onto that stage, chin high, and knock them out of their fancy seats as he always does. He will do his utmost best. He will. But already he's looking forward to later, to… the hotel he's staying at. Nice, beautiful and chic, with excellent room service. Not home, of course. Never home. Home… is something distant and fuzzy, something that is half his parents and half something… something elusive. Home isn't part of this reality. He's got an apartment in Tokyo. Large and roomy and filled with everything he's ever wanted. He can afford it. But it is not home.  
  
Three years ago, when he believed the loneliness would kill him, he'd take someone with him. Someone who seemed to understand, someone bright and kind, someone to spend the night with. But next morning the loneliness was still as bad. On top of it he'd have to tell a rabid fan that it was just that, just one night. It made him feel like scum and it never elevated the ache, so he stopped.   
  
The compère appears, sudden and startling before him, nods that it is time.  
  
Ohtori breathes in, then out.   
  
Steps onto the stage.  
  
It's strange and frightening just how strong his auto-pilot mode is. He greets his audience, takes his place, watches the lights dim. Plays. It barely registers. Even the stroke of his bow on the strings is automatic, like breathing, but he pours all his concentration in it, fills the music as well as he can with passion, the little he has left, but enough to make the melody fly like wild eagles.  
  
He's doing his job and is doing it with conviction.  
  
Still his job.  
  
Once he fought for this, that one day he could stand on a stage and share this.   
  
People encouraged him, one person in particular.  
  
One person fought just as hard, or even harder, to get him here. Famous, likely to get his name in the pages of history books on famous violinists, a mark a handful of people ever get to make. It was perfect in the beginning, the best of two worlds. But nobody has it all and Ohtori never realized it was crumbling until it slipped between his fingers and was lost.  
  
He doesn't complain. He has this, and few have it. It doesn't make his headache any lesser, nor does it fill the empty hole in his self. But this is his path and he's walking it steadily.  
  
The music sounds, even to him, otherworldly. It is strange to realize he's doing it, that he's still capable of such emotion.  
  
Briefly, from under his lashes, Ohtori observes the expressions of the people on the font row. Every single one of them is wide eyed, lips parted in awe, like they just were offered to reach out and warp themselves up into everything thing they've ever wanted. They look like they can't believe that music such as this is possible. All of them look like that, reverent, moved and brim-full of joy, but for one.  
  
One person scowls, disapproving and arms crossed.  
  
Ohtori falters.  
  
Nobody hears it, but him. And maybe that one person.  
  
He's sitting on the first row, a little to his right. Brows are knitted in a firm ' _no, what the hell is that_?' and lips are white and angry.  
  
Ohtori can't breathe.   
  
He plays, but he dies and soars all at once,  _and what is he doing here?_  
  
Oh, he's seen that look before. The 'is-that-all-you've-got-Choutarou?' one. He loves it and hates it and somewhere between one stroke and another something fills him, his heart, his soul, everything he's sacrificed and he plays, plays like the devil: worse and better.  
  
The performance is one like he hasn't managed in five years. People, the whole audience, balcony included, rises when he's done. They clap and dry tears, none of mourning but of sheer happiness. The noise is thunderous, insane, and Ohtori hears it, but he's looking only at one person. He sits there, and keeps seated.  
  
Only when there's less than half of the theatre clapping, he rises. He claps, belated and at discord. People stare and frown, but Ohtori smiles, smiles for real and can only look at him when he bows, low, too low, if he could kneeling on hands and knees. Too soon he has to leave, even when he's scared so bad he'll not be able to find him, the one who frowned at first but clapped harder and more sincere than others.  
  
The people stream from the theatre and Ohtori watches it happen, sick and happy and scared. He doesn't hear one word from his well-wishers, the profound thanks from the compère and the staff or whatever. Suddenly he's thirteen again and awaiting a phone call, or an email, or even just standing at he school gates, waiting. There's women, beautiful ones, offering him gifts, words, emotions and  _other_  things, but he doesn't hear it.  
  
 _Just go away_ , he wants to beg.  
  
When they do, there's nobody left.  
  
Ohtori's breath shudders and hitches and something he didn't know was still left, dies. Nonetheless, he waits. One hour, two. Then he goes back to the hotel. Alone. Wasn't he an adult? Isn't he rich and talented and successful and past this sorry sort of childish hope?  
  
In the end, it is just him.  
  
He's tired and heartsore.  
  
Did he imagine it?  
  
Did he imagine  _him_? Did he imagine Shi-  
  
"Choutarou."  
  
Ohtori feels it like a bullet wound. Just a block from his hotel and he's wounded, caught. It hurts to turn. When he sees Shishido standing there, brighter than his most treasured memory, something breaks.  
  
"What are you doing here?" Ohtori chokes. What he truly wants to say is ' _Ryou, Ryou, Ryou…_ '.  
  
"I'm here to kick your ass, you idiot." Shishido growls. "What the fuck, Choutarou?"  
  
Ohtori blinks.  
  
"You look like shit and your playing was like shit. You sounded doped. What's up with that? I didn't believe it. I didn't. But then Atobe saw you play in England. I didn't believe it. But… fucking hell, Choutarou, what's wrong with you?" Shishido starts out talking, calm and reasonable, but at the end he's screaming, angry and pissed off.  
  
Ohtori takes a step back, blinks again.  
  
Alright, he might have imagined this reconciliation to go a little different. More like ' _I've missed you so_ ' and hungry lips on his and… and everything being alright again, somehow.  
  
"You stupid idiot," Shishido says. It's low and rough and disgusted. "This is it, or what? Huh?"  
  
"What?" Ohtori manages. "What?"  
  
"Che," Shishido scoffs, rolls his eyes. "You're such an idiot."  
  
"I have headaches-" he starts.  
  
"Why didn't you call me?" Shishido interrupts. "Why? Aren't we friends? Weren't we… weren't we…" he trails off, look aside.  
  
They were. Ohtori can still taste it, the fire. Shishido against him, so close and real and knowing that nothing else mattered.  
  
Yet here he is. They. The two of them. Five years between them and Shishido is very, very pissed off.  
  
But those five years… Shishido carries them exquisitely. More beautiful, more powerful and more  _him_. Physically he hasn't changed much. He's a man now, alright. But he's still slender and slight, to the point of being skinny. His hair is still caught between black and brown, as well as his eyes, though they burn fiercer. He's still Shishido Ryou and absolutely beautiful to Ohtori's eyes.  
  
He never asked Shishido to give up his life, his dream. How could he, when Shishido got him where he is now, what he never believed himself capable of?  
  
" _Choutarou_!" Shishido hisses. "Why?"  
  
"I-" Ohtori starts, but he's crumbling himself now, losing grasp of his current reality, because Shishido-san shouldn't be here, not halfway across the world at a concert of his.  
  
He never wanted  _this_. Not when the price was Shishido-san. Somehow that's how it happened and he regrets it, so damn much, but he doesn't want to be ungrateful, though it was his fault more -those five years- than they were Shishido's.  
  
"Please," is all he can say in the end. " _Please_."  
  
Shishido's chin goes up and his brows draw together as though in pain and shock. Still, he understands. Half.  
  
He apologizes, over and over, when Ohtori undresses him in the luxurious warmth of his hotel room. Somehow Shishido thinks the hole through Ohtori's chest is his fault, while it is far from, though he is the missing piece.  
  
He apologizes, between sloppy mouths smudging and tasting, when his hands are re-mapping Ohtori's body. Ohtori's skin starts to sing all by its own, no bow or violin needed.  
  
He apologizes when Ohtori draws him to the ground, not even in bed because it was too far away.  
  
He apologizes when finally they sink together, beyond skin. Beyond words.  
  
Then he shuts up. Sort of.  
  
He doesn't cry, after. But he goes very still.   
  
They hold one other. Shishido is small and vulnerable, in his arms, but it is he who holds Ohtori, he who makes it all alright. Ohtori presses his face agains the heartbeat trapped under the off-center left side of Shishido's chest and breathes, great gulping heaves of air.  
  
"Choutarou," Shishido says, matter-of-factly, at four in the morning. He draws a white shirt over them to chase off goosebumps.  
  
"Ryou," he answers. His hands clench, dragging at skin over a lean back.  
  
"What?" Shishido asks. His mouth is in Ohtori's hair, intimate.  
  
"I want-" Ohtori begins. But he has to stop. He can't explain what he wants, not really. There's a word for it, perhaps, but it would be to ask Shishido to change everything, his whole life, as well as his own, to make it happen.  
  
"Yes," Shishido says, simply.  
  
Ohtori draws closer, breath shuddering and startled.  
  
  
Home.  
  
  
His headache is gone.


	22. DAY 22 ~ PREDATOR NC-17

A hand sneaks down the back of his jeans.  
  
Shishido rolls his eyes. "Choutarou, I'm trying to do the dishes."  
  
"Okay," Choutarou says.  
  
The word lands hot and husky against the shell of his right ear and Shishido can't hide the shiver that drips down his spine.  
  
"Weren't you nagging at me to do them for, I dunno, three days or something?" he asks.  
  
The hand withdraws and Shishido blinks in surprise at how  _easy_  it was, before it dips inside again, now under the band of his boxers. He jumps at the sudden contact of callused skin on his buttocks, hand warm, always so deliciously warm, palming his behind.  
  
"Y-you got a thing for this? Me doing the dishes?" Shishido manages, almost collected and calm, but not quite and damn Choutarou anyway.  
  
"Hmm…" Choutarou goes, now actual lips on his jaw, nipping. "Alright?"  
  
Nobody should be able to make him nod as enthusiastically as he is, not by just sticking a hand down his pants and fondling his ass, with some nibbling at his ear to chase it down. Then again it  _is_  Choutarou and doesn't he always put his heart and soul into whatever he sets his mind to? Yeah. That and something else, Shishido gathers, when he cants back into him and feel something distinctly hard and male against the small of his back.  
  
Choutarou makes a sound, deep in his chest and moves his other hand along his belt towards his front. The buckle clicks loose and the lip is pulled free. It makes his jeans sag more on his hips. Briefly the hand slips up under his shirt, circles over his stomach. The mouth against his cheek is wet and lingering, pressing kisses. Fingers tickle along the back of thighs, then come up and grasp his right buttock lightly. Shishido's head drops back against Choutarou shoulder. The hand at his front dips down to pop the button on his pants, to pinch the zipper and pull it down.  
  
By then, Shishido couldn't care about the dishes even if they exploded. His hands are still wet, so he keeps them on the counter. Choutarou doesn't seem to need his active participation to get turned on, especially not by how he rocks up against Shishido, nor by how eager his hands are.   
  
It's not even necessary to strip.   
  
Ohtori wriggles his hand down the front, too, making Shishido weak in the knees at being played like that, as though Ohtori is attempting to draw the sweetest notes out of a piano. For a moment the hand at his backside leaves, but comes back pretty quickly, slick, sliding over him and how the hell did he do that? But it doesn't matter, not with Choutarou careful when he presses inside, sharp and strange for a moment, but then the hand curls around his cock moves, too, slowly up and down.  
  
"Ryou…"  
  
It doesn't need an answer. Shishido just leans on the counter and tries to stay standing, hard with the dual pleasure from behind and around him, with the mouth at the corner of his mouth.  
  
Maybe it should be embarrassing, standing in the daylight flooded kitchen in the middle of the day, jeans around his ankles and fingers still wrinkled from being submerged in the soapy water, but it isn't… yet he has no doubt that -he turns his head a little, manages a strenuous smile- yes, of course Choutarou is blushing, silly and kinda cute, even if he's the one sliding a finger inside and outside, careful, so careful, and then two. Deep pressure and tentative curling to find- Shishido's forehead thunks abruptly on the countertop as his legs give out.  
  
"Fuck!" he hisses, then shudders bone-deep as Choutarou kisses the nape of his neck, pumps his hand up and down more steadily. It's a little shallow, trapped inside his boxers like that, and maddening. "Fuck, Choutarou!" he groans.  
  
"Almost," Choutarou murmurs. "Wait…"   
  
He nuzzles at the top of his spine, so sweet and tender and Shishido can't decide whether he's going to grit out threats or cry out in pleasure, but the he does cry out, shocked and jagged when it is three fingers, and  _right there_ \- oh damn, oh hell, Choutarou really does play him, his body, knowing it intimately and loving it, the knowing and playing of it.  
  
"Fuck, oh damn,  _you_ \- damn-" Shishido really does mean to say something intelligent, maybe even something suave or sexy, but that's not working out much for him, it seems.  
  
The fingers leave him. Suddenly he seems alone in his skin, too empty, aching and needing. Bereft and mildly pissed off, he peeks over his shoulder.  
  
Choutarou kisses his mouth, hot and hungry. "Turn around," he whispers.   
  
His eyes are dark and fierce and Shishido loves him, loves the hand palming his hip and turning him, inching his boxers down off his hips to join his jeans. Choutarou.. does something to him, this, not the sex, or the touching, but the sight of him, making it hard to breathe and his heart race, painful and thick and dammit, he'd do anything for him,  _anything_ , crazy or embarrassing or plain stupid, anything and everything for Choutarou. The line of his mouth, lips swollen, the angle of his jaw and his nose, his eyes and ears and hair and cheeks and dammit, it can still hurt when he looks at him, pain of the loveliest kind.  
  
"Stop looking at me like that," Choutarou says, breathless. His eyes are warm and he's smiling.  
  
"Huh?" Shishido goes, eloquent as always with his erection bobbing in mid-air and stupid with arousal.  
  
Choutarou laughs and sinks down to his knees.  
  
Oh damn.  
  
He's not going to last, is he?  
  
Not if Choutarou is going to go- OH DAMN. He screams, but soundless, mouth open and wide and eyes blind. He is.   
  
It's so damned difficult not to push deeper himself, into the hot, burning velvet wetness of Choutarou's mouth, so he settles for grabbing at that fair hair, incorrigibly soft between his cruel fingers. Not seeming to mind much Choutarou hums, almost agreeable, and slicks his tongue against the underside of him, dragging as he pulls back, exposing him chilly to the air.   
  
He goes down on him, thorough and because he himself wants to, judging by how he pulls back and just drags his tongue along him, watching, before taking him between his lips again. Shishido knows that if the counter wasn't at his back he'd be a shameless, boneless, sobbing mess on the floor. Instead he's a shameless, boneless, sobbing mess against the counter, noises rising from him he doesn't need to hear himself make, so he presses the back of his hand against his mouth, stifling the sound and biting at his own knuckles, eyes hooded as he looks down to see Choutarou having a pretty good time sucking him off.  
  
As always, there's the hands, smoothing up and down his trembling thighs, almost shy and delicate.  
  
And when Choutarou glances up through his lashes, the look is all for him and that smile -around him- is, too.  
  
"Stop," Shishido manages on an exhale. "I want-"  
  
Almost regrettably he draws back, slow and lingering, tasting the desire on him. It nearly hurts when the sensation is lost, but Choutarou kissing first his left hipbone and then his right kinda makes up for it. He stands up, unbuckling his own pants as he does, kissing Shishido when he's tall and towering over him again. He tastes himself on those lips, inside that mouth and he cups Choutarou's face and mutters, "You drive me fucking crazy."  
  
"I try," Choutarou says, kinda cheeky, and it makes the both of them laugh, husky and good. Because sex should be able to mesh with laughing and smiling and being so damned happy Shishido thinks he'll fly apart at the seams if it weren't for the clutch on his hips.  
  
Choutarou lifts.   
  
Shishido wraps his legs around his waist.  
  
His backside is pressed into the edge of the counter and they look for balance.  
  
Once he was jealous of Choutarou's superior height, his physically stronger body, how more toned he is, how utterly masculine he looks, but now he takes pleasure in it, prides himself on being with someone like that, because he gets to admire it… and have it. That and it makes for having a partner strong enough, as well as a nifty height difference, that they can do this -sex against the countertop in the kitchen- and can do it so damned well.  
  
And he loves it that Choutarou can look into his eyes when he eases inside, see the reverence there and the rough intimacy of this, of looking at one other and both recognizing the slow inching of his partner inside of him. It's like a liquid, heavy brand inside of him, too much, always too much and enough to hurt him, but Shishido can't pay attention to that when all he wants is to- he clenches his thighs and pulls- fuck, yes, this, this, Choutarou all the way to the hilt sudden and violent enough those eyes go blank and wide.  
  
Shishido bites his neck, gently enough. "Well?" he demands, when Choutarou just stands there, struggling with the mechanics of breathing.  
  
The answer isn't verbal, but says all it needs to, the rock of his hips, pulling out languid so molten heat pools between Shishido's legs and at the base of his spine, before receiving a sudden sharp snap back inside.  
  
He arches and groans and the dishes inside the sink clatter, which makes them laugh again, breathless huffs.  
  
Shishido leans in, grinning, pressing his forehead against Choutarou's, kissing his nose and then his mouth. The grin becomes a taut smile when Choutarou starts to move, genuine because he has to, needs to fall into that natural, instinctive rising and falling of their bodies.  
  
They cling and hold, Shishido growling encouragement and kissing Choutarou's warm face, saying stupid, mushy things that make no sense otherwise but do now.  
  
He doesn't always, but there is something about the trembling man in his arms that makes him mutter and whisper, kiss and urge him on.   
  
Choutarou looses himself, clutching bruises into his skin, eyelids fluttering and hips making hard stabbing jabs and Shishido hears himself start to babble, inanely, and then growl, then sobbing and pleading and finally move on past words to bite, dammit, trying to meet that physical pleasure with his own, high up the side of Choutarou's throat and hard, maybe even breaking skin when he feels himself go rigid and try to arch as he comes, hard, his body straining tense but keeping his teeth where they are and thus pulling, tugging and it doesn't help that Choutarou starts to slam, enough that Shishido's whole body moves up and still he keeps latched on.  
  
There's a noise from Choutarou, deep and just as rough, his name in there somewhere and then he pulls him down, so deep, too deep almost but never and never more perfect and Shishido's teeth disconnect so he can suck in air, while he holds Choutarou through his orgasm.  
  
And then there's suddenly the floor.  
  
Shishido starts, caught numb in the aftershocks and tries to hit Choutarou, but flaps at air instead.  
  
"Sorry," Choutarou gasps, collapsing next to him. "Sorry, I- sorry, I. I- damn. I-"  
  
"Are you actually going to produce words," Shishido manages between harsh pants, quite proud to have actual sentences at his disposal this time around. Kinda. "Or what?"  
  
"No," Choutarou says and laughs, head tipping back. Then: " _Ouch_." A hand draws away from his neck.  
  
Shishido feels a lot more sober instantly. He actually drew blood on him. "Oh god, oh fuck." He reaches, then draws back as though scorched when he sees the lived imprint of his teeth. "I'm sorry. Fuck, Choutarou, I didn't mean to-"  
  
Lips press over his, rather clumsy and off-center, half on his chin, too. "I dropped you," Choutarou says, fuzzy around the words. "And it is not as though I actually  _minded_  it."  
  
"You're bleeding," Shishido snarls, furious, so damn furious he wants to break things, vicious rage directed inward. "I-"  
  
"Ryou?" Choutarou says, exasperated. "Shut up."  
  
Shishido does. Only because Choutarou never says that, not  _meaning_  it and  _rolling his eyes_  at the same time.  
  
"You're an idiot if you think I didn't love it," Choutarou adds, quite firmly. "So no talking. You say silly things."  
  
"Thanks," Shishido bites out, sarcastic and relieved and still a little upset.  
  
Choutarou kisses him again, aiming better and getting him full-mouthed, before cradling him closer and curling up around him. There's a happy, humming noise and he noses at Shishido's temple.   
  
Shishido turns his head and puts his mouth over the bite, gently and caring, laving it clean with soft strokes of his tongue. It's not deep. The skin is broken, but besides that he didn't actually just took a chunk out of his partner. Small mercies.  
  
They lay together on the floor, caressing and embracing.  
  
After a few minutes Shishido opens his mouth again, previous warning notwithstanding. "Choutarou?"  
  
"…hm?" It's sleepy.  
  
Shishido clears his throat. "Does this mean I still gotta do those dishes?"  
  
"Ryou?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Shut up," Choutarou says.  
  
  
He does.  
  
Smiles when Choutarou nips playfully at his shoulder.  
  
  
The dishes can wait, right?  
  
  
Another day or two.


	23. DAY 23 ~ CREATURE COMFORT PG-13

It's quite late when Shishido finds himself standing before Choutarou's house.  
  
The sky is pitch black and it is freezing cold out. It snows a little, too. The flakes catch on Shishido's eyelashes and create tiny starbursts when the light from the windows reflects on them. Out of his peripheral vision can see them cling to the strands of long, dark hair as well, where it drapes over his shoulders.  
  
In a way, it is a beautiful night. The sort to make a perfect setting for a movie. Soft and hazy. Magical.  
  
Even Shishido would be able to appreciate it, if it weren't for the cold dread sitting like a brick under his ribs, colder than any snow -or ice- could ever be.  
  
He sighs. His breath mists into the air, the minuscule droplets glimmering.  
  
Something is wrong with Choutarou. He saw it first thing when he appeared at practice and lingered throughout the whole day. Shishido was at him with every opportunity he got, trying to pry 'it' out from him like a metaphorical crowbar, but Choutarou is and always has been sorta private about his more intense sort of emotions and by the end of the day he only got to face the distant icy smile. One: that pissed him off. Two: it made him worry ever more so.  
  
After all, what can be so bad that Choutarou wouldn't tell him?  
  
So Shishido finds himself standing before his partner's house at an hour that's kinda beyond common decency, but he couldn't take it anymore.  
  
He tried phoning, mailing, IM-ing, bugging Hiyoshi, pestering Kabaji, heck, even contacting that guy from music class that's a friend of his,  _everything_. Choutarou ignored all of his efforts, as he had treating been his verbal ones at school. His friends hadn't noticed anything amiss, when Shishido prompted them. Apparently he'd acted as he always does.  
  
For one single moment Shishido had known doubt.  
  
But then he'd shaken it off and here he is. He's not imaging things, it's  _Choutarou_  and he knows he's right.  
  
So he walks up to the door and rings the bell.  
  
There is no expressing his endless relief when Choutarou's grandmother opens the door.  
  
"Ryou-kun?" she croaks.   
  
She's ancient, but Shishido kinda likes her. She's a feisty old thing and he can't figure out how someone as cool as her spawned someone like Choutarou's dad. Then again, Choutarou's dad somehow managed to get and raise Choutarou who turned about, well,  _Choutarou_. Maybe awesomeness skips generations in the Ohtori family?  
  
Either way.  
  
He bows, a little lower than needed. His hair trails soft and silky against his cheeks. "I am sorry for disturbing you, Ohtori-san," he says. "But is there any chance I might talk to Choutarou?"  
  
There's a pointed silence.   
  
Awkward, Shishido straightens again. Snow melts as the warmer air from inside escapes into the night, beading into shining crystal droplets on his face.  
  
"Choutarou-chan might not feel up to visitors," she says, not unkindly.   
  
Shishido shifts his weight, waits.  
  
"But as it is you…" she continues after a thoughtful moment. "Yes, he might need you, even though he'll like to pretend he doesn't."  
  
Shishido blinks. Was that a yes?   
  
The door opens wider, beckoning him inside. With a grateful dip of his head, he steps inside.  
  
Always he feels out of place and… well, the commoner Atobe likes to call him. Grubby. Uncultured. Plain. Of course Choutarou's house isn't like Atobe's, not even a tenth. But he guesses that it is 'second best' on the fanciness scale, or whatever. It is both more traditional, as well as more western in places. And  _huge_.   
  
And clean.  
  
Not that his mom doesn't clean or anything, but there's usually  _stuff_  all over the place -admittedly mostly his or Sho's- , cosily messy. It's lived in and kinda cramped, but home. For all the stamp of money on this house, Shishido has to admit he likes is own place better. It smells of home, of the cleaning detergent his mother uses, of food -because three men in a household requires a lot of cooking to be done-, of boys and dirt, of mown grass in the summer and burning heaters in the winter. It used to smell like dog, too, not flattering, but still.  
  
Of course there is no dog anymore.  
  
But it used to.  
  
Choutarou's house smells like… nothing. Not even like cloying roses the way Atobe's does, or cigarettes like Oshitari's.  
  
After leaving his shoes in the genkan -neatly lined up, not the way he dumps them at random back home- he ventures up the stairs. They don't have that predictable creak like the ones at his place do, these are silent and sturdy. There are also pictures on the wall, trap-wisely aligned with the ascending level, of the family. All of them show them smiling, perfect.  
  
Shishido knows that his own aren't as perfect. There's one where he's a pouting baby brat and also one where he's smiling for the camera, gap-toothed as he's losing his baby teeth. There's one where his mother is fresh out of bed and frowning over a cup of strong tea (the one where she looks so like him, even he believed it a picture of himself at first glance), of his father wearing silly Mickey Mouse ears at Disneyland (incidentally also the same picture in which Shishido looks thunderous because he was pulled out of the Space Shuttle pre-maturely), of a vacation where his brother was so sunburned Shishido called him lobster-butt for two weeks.  
  
Somehow his own seem more real. He can't help but somehow feel  _bad_  for Choutarou even though he arguably is better off than him. It's a gut-feeling, something he can't explain, but there's evidence of it when Choutarou stays over and glows like a star when Shishido's mother gushes over him, serves him his favorite dishes.  
  
He pads through the hallway, gets a glimpse into Choutarou's sister's room. Which is twice the size his own room is and all white and baby-blue, with posters of boy idols plastering the walls and a make-up table that has more junk on it than his mother has ever used and  _will_  use in her entire life. Then again Shishido thinks his mother is the most beautiful woman on earth and doesn't need it (…so what if he's a mama's boy? Problem with that, huh?).  
  
At the end of the hallway is Choutarou's. Evidently, he likes Choutarou's room best. It looks most like his own, if less chaotic and messy, with decidedly less junk on the floor and no lightsabers, Nintendo games, comic books and tennis balls covering every available surface. Yes, there's a lot of music-themed stuff about, but also posters of tennis players and cutouts of articles, rackets and strings in a corner, a familiar jersey hanging on a hook on the wall. Same middle-school picture on his desk, of the team.  
  
The door is open, a little, and opens further when Shishido raps his knuckle on it. "Choutarou?"  
  
Choutarou is lying on the bed, on his side. He lifts himself, slowly. Then stands up. "Shi-Shishido-san?"  
  
"Hey," Shishido says, stepping inside.   
  
"What are you doing here?" he asks. It sounds flat and defensive.  
  
Even from where he is standing he can feel the distance emanating from him, the slight accusation.  
  
Often they don't need words anymore.  
  
Choutarou's very intonation, in that one sentence, asks this question also: ' _You knew I wanted to be alone. You knew I didn't want to talk about it. Why are you here_?'.  
  
Shishido walks further inside, sits on the bed. His hair slides against his nape, thick and almost familiar again. The front of his bangs and most of the top half is tied into a loose ponytail, the rest hangs lose. Some wayward strands caught at a stubborn stage escape the elastic and feather around his cheeks, static thanks to the weather and his wool scarf he wore to come over.  
  
They look at each other.   
  
Choutarou still looks like hell. Nothing physically shows, he's cool and collected, but Shishido can  _tell_  the pain even if it doesn't show. Choutarou is strange at showing his emotions, painfully and almost embarrassingly open sometimes and yet… yet almost as proud as him, at times, so he hides it and pretty well at that. But Shishido can tell. They are not touching, but Shishido can  _feel_  it, between them, raw and not alright at all.  
  
"Tell me," Shishido says softly.  
  
"It is nothing," Choutarou says. "Please, senpai," he adds.  
  
Shishido sighs. Looks at the worn knees of his jeans. There's no light in the room. Choutarou didn't have one turned on and Shishido didn't either. The door is closed and any light that sneaks in does so through the window.  
  
"Was it something I did?" Shishido whispers.  
  
An intake. Choutarou turns towards him. "No, no of course not." He says.  
  
Shishido deflates with relief.  
  
It is hard. What he feels for Choutarou… it's difficult. Often he says things, does things, things he  _shouldn't_. They aren't bad, or even overly explicit, but they are there. He worries about the rising intensity between the two of them, he worries about how Choutarou occupies his every single thought, he worries about how he shouldn't, but how it is there no matter how fervently he wishes for it to stop.  
  
He worries about how there seems to be something… something he can't put his finger on, something Choutarou seems to answer to but not really, never so that Shishido  _knows_. It's something wild and dangerous and Shishido fears it is all in his  _head_. That the something is all him and that there's nothing coming from Choutarou but that what he imagines there to be. What he wants and hopes -though he shouldn't- there to be.  
  
That aside…  
  
"Then what is it?" he asks.  
  
Choutarou positively  _flinches_. The he composes himself, strong and sealed off.  
  
"It's nothing," he says steadily. "Don't worry about it, senpai."  
  
"Choutarou…"  
  
"Shishido-san, please, I don't want to talk about it! It's nothing."  
  
"If it is nothing," Shishido reasons back at him, "then you can tell me what's wrong."  
  
It's a harsh and unfair challenge and Shishido sucks balls at this comforting business, but it is the only way he knows how to.  
  
Choutarou looks at him. It's just that. Like a look from a stranger and nothing more.  
  
"Miki got hit by a car," he says, "this morning."  
  
Miki. Choutarou's cat. White, soft fur, huge blue eyes. A complete, utter spoiled bitch of a feline. Pure bred. Choutarou didn't care about the last, he simply adored the creature, vile temperament aside. She could've been fished out of a garbage can, missing one ear and smell like a turd, and he'd have loved her. Choutarou loved Miki, his cat, like Shishido loved Mochi, his dog.  
  
Shishido closes his eyes.  
  
 _Oh.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Shishido Ryou, you fucking asshole._  
  
He opens them, but doesn't see Choutarou now, he sees Choutarou with him in the treehouse in his backyard, face full of concern and saying: ' _It's not stupid_ ' and an arm around him while he bawled like a girl over his dead dog.  
  
"Choutarou…" he murmurs, almost too soft for either of them to hear.  
  
But Choutarou hears and flinches yet again. Looks out of the window. Like carved out of marble, almost, so still and perfect is his profile, he himself.  
  
Shishido doesn't know what to do, because he sucks more than just balls at this comforting thing, so he sits there, useless, bleeding for Choutarou. Who'd have thought? He himself dissolving into tears and having to skip school over the death of his dog, while Choutarou sucks it up when his cat gets flattened by a car, goes to school and fools everybody.   
  
Except for him.  
  
"Choutarou," he repeats and reaches. He doesn't know what else to offer, but for what Choutarou offered him: a shoulder to cry on.  
  
" _Don't_ ," Choutarou hisses when his hand curls over that broad shoulder. "Don't," he repeats. "Please."  
  
But Shishido shifts until he's right besides him. He doesn't really think it through, it just happens. Instead of one arm and a shoulder, he uses both arms and pulls Choutarou -who bodily resists- against his chest. He holds him trapped and Choutarou -weak with grief- struggles some, limp arms pushing at him. Then he goes slack, like someone tugged the power-supply out of his body, stiff and not real.  
  
Shishido keeps holding him. He doesn't know  _what else to do_ , but pathetically attempt to recreate that sense of physical comfort Choutarou offered him past summer, when Mochi died. It seems like the wrong thing to do, because Choutarou is like an icicle and Shishido thinks about the something between them and how it might all be in his head.  
  
Just when he thinks of pulling away, of standing and leaving the way Choutarou all but explicitly  _begged_  him to, Choutarou shudders. From the core of his being, the center of his chest it comes, and then a heave of air.  
  
Shishido holds him when he starts to sob, and then cry, softly. Holds him when Choutarou breaks into tiny, hurting pieces. Holds him and feels tears in his neck, soaking his shirt, smells salt and grief. Holds him and murmurs, "It's not stupid."  
  
He holds him and starts to rock, just a little, cradling Choutarou. His cheek is plastered into fair, half-curly hair, his arms are wrapped around Choutarou's growing, awkward, broad shoulders.  
  
After, even, when they sink towards the bed, Shishido holds him, as tight as he dares to and feels his best friend -and the boy he's come to love- cry, honest yet subdued, yet all the more raw for it.  
  
Shishido doesn't need to ask whether it's the first time he's cries, he can feel that, the raw shock only then passing completely through him, hard and destructive yet clearing a pathway for healing instead of festering.  
  
He stays the night.  
  
Nobody asks.  
  
He borrows pajamas, uses a spare brush.  
  
He starts out on the spare futon, but ends up in bed with Choutarou.  
  
It is still not something.  
  
But it is Choutarou who -again wordlessly- asks him to, so Shishido slips under the blankets and spoons him. One hand is flat on Choutarou's belly, over his shirt, the other his under the hollow of his neck and plastered fingertips across his heart. It is his face buried against the back of Choutarou's neck, breathing deep.   
  
It is Choutarou tearless.  
  
It is Choutarou  _asleep_  -in his arms.  
  
Only not quite.  
  
"Thank you," Choutarou breathes, sometime past midnight.  
  
Shishido inhales, blinks. His lashes brush Choutarou's nape. "What for?" he murmurs.  
  
Choutarou doesn't answer. Doesn't need to, not for this.  
  
"I'm not just your senpai," Shishido says.  
  
There's a silence. Choutarou nods. Shishido feels it -skin dragging up and down across his lips.   
  
"I know," Choutarou whispers.   
  
They breathe together. Shishido can feel Choutarou's chest expand and contract under his touch.  
  
"That's why," Choutarou slurs after a few minutes, sinking into true sleep. "Thank…" he breathes in.  
  
Shishido smiles.  
  
"… you," he breathes.  
  
  
They sleep.


	24. DAY 24 ~ MOVEMENT R

" _-od Morning!_  It is almost six and the perfect time for you early birds to get up and get a head-start on the day! Stick your head out the window to see the first snow of year; the perfect moment, ne? Hopefully tomorrow we'll wake up to a white Christmas after all. I feel up to playing a good old Christmas classic, what abou-"

　

Shishido slams his fist down on the button.

Fucking hell.

Even Gakuto. He wants to support his friend's radio station. He truly does. Usually with pleasure, no problem. Gakuto has an okay taste in music and knows how to attract listeners. Yet even he seems to have this inexplicable need to hop on the bandwagon and milk the last drop out of season's commercial idiocy.

He shifts his head towards the window. A slight gap between the curtains shows cool, clear twilight, at odds with the time of the year's usual doom and gloom impression. Figures it has to snow on top of it, too. Not his preferred conditions to go jogging in.

Not that it'll stop him, but it sure does put a major damper on his enthusiasm.

Especially when there are arms around him, hot exhales against his collarbone. A leg is slung over his hips.

Nice. Warm.

He's half-hard, pressed against the soft skin of Choutarou's inner thigh. It feels good to have him close like that, wonderfully physical and tangible, instead of hasty phone calls whenever Choutarou finds a small window of time to ring him, just his voice distorted through the receiver. It's good to have him home. Well, back in Tokyo, though even that has to do with the schedule of his tour. And home is Choutarou's apartment, for now. Not that he's complaining. Far from.

The temptation to close his eyes and let sleep pull him down is great.

Instead he starts to sit up. Or tries to, at least. Choutarou sure does hang on securely, for being asleep and all. It takes inching, maneuvering and prying limbs off him before he can stick even one leg out into the cold air.

His toes touch the fuzzy sleeve of the now cold water bottle and he kicks it aside whilst trying to tug free his arm, the last piece of him Choutarou has hold of. With one last firm yank he lets go and Shishido stumbles out of bed with the force of his momentum.

It's  _freezing_.

Teeth clattering, he tries to find appropriate clothes to face the blistering cold with, not to mention which'll keep him dry despite the snow. Through all his muttering and hissing and cursing, Choutarou sleeps on, nestling into the warm indent left by Shishido's body.

Dressed and armed for the temperature outside, Shishido stands next to the bed, taking note of the exhausted lines on Choutarou's face. Dead to the world. Not surprising, considering that he's been doing nothing else but performing with his orchestra, going from place to place and doing his utmost best, because that's what he always does. Upon his arrival in Tokyo Shishido had been waiting for him and the only time they didn't spend 'making up for lost time' in bed was on the ride from the airport to Choutarou's apartment.

He's crashing the whole week at Choutarou's, spending the holidays together. Nothing fancy, nothing too… too… Christmassy or anything. Just the two of them at home.

That is, when they can. Already this evening Choutarou will be on stage again, wowing everybody with his music. Shishido is looking forward to it with mixed feelings, mostly content with the knowledge that  _after_ , Choutarou and he will end up in this bed again.

He feels a little guilty for keeping Choutarou up as long as he has, but his mind is full of images of heated skin on skin, of mouths sloppily tasting and clinging over and over, the rock of their bodies… and he knows that Choutarou wouldn't have had it any other way.

Besides, he can sleep in.

After one last look (that may or may not have been accompanied by a slightly -or very- lovestruck expression) he walks into the living room. Fishes Choutarou's keys from the pocket of his pants -where they still are after having been discarded rather hastily yesterday i.e. the floor-, he heads out.

For a jog in the first snow of the year.

***

The snow falls in thick, loose clusters.

They lightly coat his knit cap and his jacket, but it's cold enough they don't melt upon contact. The ones that catch on his eyelashes linger, strange and awkward. Once he steps inside the convenience store the hot air curtain blasts them to droplets. Shishido takes off his hat, fishes his ponytail out his collar. The fly-aways from the tassel cling against his neck, made static by the wool of his hat.

It is still early, but the signs of the heavy rush that'll flood the supermarket are already there. There's a noteworthy amount of young women, undoubtedly trying to get their hands on the prime pieces of fish, flesh and vegetables to cook oscar-worthy Christmas dinners with.

Shishido tries to ignore them, as well as all the horrid decorations: fat, silly Santa-sans everywhere and a crapload of tinsel. Lights flash merrily everywhere. One of the staff wears a red hat with a white plush trim and pompom at the end.

Everybody is fucking insane.

Shishido loads his basket with the usual kind of groceries. Enough for an elaborate dinner, but plain and simple and certainly none of the typical Christmassy crap everybody buys. He'll make a light dinner before Choutarou has to head off, enough to give him an energy boost, but not so he'll feel stuffed before the veritable workout he always engages in whilst playing the piano. Some snacks and a bottle of champagne. To celebrate being together.

As last and as per ancient ingrained habit, he stops by the racks of magazines. Picks out his usual favorites -sports, music, gaming- and peruses them. The staff no longer glower at him for it, he takes care not to crinkle them and puts them back correctly. Once in a while he buys one. Not to mention he always does his grocery shopping here.

That and the girl that always occupies the check-out near the magazines might have somewhat of a crush on him, so she's more than content with him standing there for a while.

He's checking out  _Monthly Pro Tennis_  -memories- when he first hears them.

Girls. Giggling. High school age -the worst kind.

"Ne, Midori-chan, look!" one says. Her nail is bubblegum pink with a strawberry decal sticker on it. It stabs like a needle towards an elaborately stacked display. She's pointing to a box with a cake inside.

A Christmas cake.

Shishido rolls his eyes, shakes out his magazine and holds it higher as not to have to witness the idiocy. That doesn't stop him from hearing it, though.

"Daikichi-kun does like chocolate… should I get it?"

"It's on sale! And it is Christmas. Can't have Christmas without a cake. Maybe I should get one for Ken, too? What do you think?"

"You should! He'll love it. Besides it is  _cake_ , nothing can ever go wrong with that."

"This one has sugar snowflakes,  _cute_!"

"What about this one? It has gifts on it."

"-will take the chocolate one-"

"Daikichi'll love it, I just know-"

"-perhaps this one. It has a lot of whipped cream-"

"-on sale anyway-"

"-men love food-"

"-especially cake-"

By the time they leave, every single one of them toting a big box towards the register, Shishido has gone through the whole magazine. Nothing special, it's low season. He puts it back and takes one with the newest video game and movie releases instead, dumps it into his basket. Shuffles. His hair still sticks to his face. He pats at it, but that makes it worse, long hairs puffed up like a cat's tail.

There's nobody lining up at the register. The cashier smiles at him.

Shishido takes a step. Towards the display.

He'll just have a look to see what the fuss is about.

That's all.

***

The straps of the plastic bag cut into his wrist as he struggles with sticking the key in the lock. The stupid cake is heavy.

Okay, so yeah, it's a Christmas cake.

Shishido peers into the plastic bag as he takes a detour to the basement to fetch Choutarou's mail for him. Which -if last year was any indication at all- will be a lot.

The cake looks good. Well, good enough. It sort of slid sideways in its box (he might've been kinda careless with it), ended up smeared against the side a little. But it still is unmistakably so a Christmas cake. If not for having been bought in the season and all, the white chocolate placard on top with 'Merry Christmas' in red and green frosting rather gives the game away.

Arriving in the basement Shishido gets a rather abrupt, yet genial plan.

He dumps the rest of the groceries underneath Choutarou's mailbox, kneels with the plastic bag that has the cake inside on the ground. Pries open the lid. Takes off the white chocolate placard with 'Merry Christmas' on it. Eats it.

Hah.

Sheer brilliance.

Now it could just be any sort of cake he just  _happened_  to buy on the day before Christmas.

Nothing lame about that, right?

At this rate he could give Oshitari a run for his money. Who's the real tensai anyway, huh?

The pleased rush lasts a few moments. Then he takes in all the crap stacked up, in, around and on Choutarou's mailbox. Christmas cards, Christmas presents, Christmas wishes, Christmas letters, … Christmas, Christmas,  _Christmas_.

Gathering the whole lot of 'em, he stuffs everything in his pockets and in the plastic bags. Starts up the stairs. Slowly.

There's quite some letters. In abnormally floral-patterned envelopes.

First one is of a certain Ebisawa Aiko.

Hm.

Doesn't sound familiar.

He sticks it in his left pocket.

Second one is from Kihara Yuuki. Doesn't know  _her_ , either. It goes with the first.

Third one has Ugaki Koichi on it. Shishido chews on it. Some guy who went to university with Choutarou. That one he puts into his right pocket.

Anami Kaoru. Left pocket.

Ohtori Sachi. Right pocket.

Hiyoshi Wakashi. Right pocket.

Shishido. Heh. Right pocket.

Hojo Misao. Left pocket.

After having gone through the stack -taking his sweet time going up the stairs, pausing ever so often- he takes the ones from his left pocket out again.

Ebisawa.

Tch.

He pries it open.

Skims it. When he catches 'admire, handsome, single, love and meet' scattered in opulent quantities across the page, he half wads it and jams it back into his left pocket. All of them but one -a certain Ichiro Mariko turns out to be some former classmate Shishido vaguely remembers (though he checks, but the letter is full of bland and honest seasonal wishes)- end up in one big crumple of carton and paper.

The presents undergo a similar treatment. He checks the cards, puts the safe ones back inside his plastic bag with the cake. One of them, he guesses, contains a book (coincidentally a present from Hiyoshi) another a CD (from Sachi-chan). There's also a rather suspiciously squishy present from Oshitari, but when he kneads it, there's something hard and cylindrical inside the soft… whatever it is.

He's half tempted to drop it before the 'Crazy Old Cat-lady's' door, but in the end relents that even he isn't that heartless. After a rather intense inner dilemma, he concedes to put it with the book and the CD.

It had better not be what he suspects it might be.

But it  _is_  Christmas and he decides that even Oshitari sometimes deserves the benefit of the doubt.

Besides, there's always ample time for Oshitari's ass to be kicked at a later date and all, if need be.

Three of them are without a doubt, candies or chocolates. He pauses on a landing to rip open the first. The card reads something along the lines of 'a great admirer of yours' and a not so subtle 'single' dropped in, as well. A store-brand sort of chocolates, but fancy ones.

Tasty.

The second one is a bag of imported cookies.

Good ones, too. Buttery and heavy.

For a single instant he considers leaving the third one to Choutarou. But then he sees the name on the card.

By the time he finally steps into Choutarou's apartment again, he feels rather over-fed and unlikely to have a craving for chocolates anytime soon. Maybe he should've tossed the boxes, but he feels oddly vindicated for having eaten them instead. Especially the last one. Home made. Must've taken her  _hours_.

Kicking off his snow-sodden shoes, he pads towards the fridge to store the cake away. Puts on some water to boil for the tea, flips the switch on the heater in the living room. The cards and letters from his right pocket he drops onto the coffee table. The actual, genuine presents go where the rest are stacked (not under a Christmas tree, Choutarou wasn't home to put one). The sweets from aunts and nieces go on the coffee table as well.

All the rest gets deposited into the trash (where they belong) without a second thought.

Duty done, he goes to wake up Choutarou.

It's almost ten, anyway. Soundlessly, Shishido pushes open the door.

Still out cold.

It makes him smile to see Choutarou curled on his side, one hand pressed against his mouth and the other loosely curled towards him, as though beckoning. He always sleeps like that alone, surprisingly vulnerable and almost child-like.

He swings the door wider.

Takes a few steps back until he bumps into the couch. That ought to be enough distance to get a fair charge at his unsuspecting victim. One last moment to appreciate how peaceful Choutarou looks. Then he launches himself.

The thunder of his approaching footsteps brings a small crease between Choutarou's brows, all the reaction he gets the time for before Shishido jumps him, landing braced over him on all fours. After which he promptly proceeds with snarling and growling, making a sharp nip-nip-nip-nip from the curve of Choutarou's shoulder to the tender underside of his jaw.

Choutarou makes a rather comical noise of shock, flails most ungainly, flops around, before waking up enough to realize he's not being devoured by some monstrous carnivore.

By then Shishido has moved on to gnawing and drooling on his ear, playfully worrying the lobe like a dog with a squeaky toy. Rather apt, taking Choutarou's rather squawking 'eeks' and 'aaahs' into account.

He has the upper hand for a quite a while, before Choutarou regains enough control of his sleep-sodden limbs to grab him and overpower him. By then there's a rather generous amount of saliva slicked on his neck and ear, as well as little red bruises that might or might not fade, just as most of them might or might not have been made sometime during the night.

Choutarou wrestles him, looking torn between an indignant sort of annoyance, as well as amusement.

Shishido only fuels the fire by tickling, nibbling and rubbing the length of his thigh rather strategically up against him.

"You." Choutarou grounds out, trying to pin both his arms, yet trying to arch away from the steady press of Shishido's leg against his crotch at the same time. "Are so dead."

Shishido grins, cocks an eyebrow. "What? About time you woke up, sleeping beauty."

A gasp.

Shishido shifts his leg. Up, down. Grins.

"Sleeping Beauty gets kissed awake," Choutarou grumbles. "And not by receiving an earful of drool."

"You weren't complaining about my drool last night. Chou-ta-rou," Shishido says, laughing at the faint flush it gets. "And you can still get a kiss, if you want it."

Choutarou lies down on him. He's rather pouty, but his eyes are glowing. "I don't think you deserve a kiss. I think you deserve to be locked in the bathroom so you can think about your crimes."

"Yeah. Punish me," Shishido says, mimicking an expression of remorse. "I've been naughty."

Now Choutarou lifts a brow at that. "… naughty? Have you been at the energy drinks again? You look like you've got a sugar-rush."

Shishido shrugs.

"Hmm…" Choutarou lets go of his wrists so he can cup his large, warm hands against either side of Shishido's face.

Now he's just smiling.

"I think I'll have that kiss," he murmurs. And leans down to take just that.

They kiss.

After a while Choutarou draws back and frowns.

"What?" Shishido demands, lips puffy and slick and wanting more. "What is it?"

Choutarou licks his lips almost thoughtfully. "Am I imagining things, or do you taste like chocolate?"

Shishido smirks.

"You're imagining things," he says and tugs his mouth on his again.

***

Ruffling his hair dry with a towel, Shishido watches Choutarou open the fridge and peer inside. There's a small pause, but there's a certain quality to it, like profound wonder mixed with astonishment.

Choutarou tilts his head just enough to look at him. He's smiling hard enough to dimple. "You bought Christmas cake," he says.

Tossing the towel aside, Shishido presents him with a scowl. "Correction. I bought cake. It just so happens to be the day before Christmas. These two facts to do not have to be related beyond that."

"Of course," Choutarou says, still smiling as he takes out the box and fetches plates.

They eat it on the couch.

For all that it is store-bought, the cake is delicious. Shishido polishes off two pieces, starts his third. Nobody ever figured out how he could eat so much and not gain weight.

Choutarou is slower, has just started his second slice. He smells like pomegranate shower gel and aftershave, exactly like Shishido himself smells. For some perverse reason he derives deep pleasure from nicking Choutarou's stuff when he stays over. From clothes to soap to his toothbrush, even (because really now, considering where they've put their mouths on one other, it'd be kinda hypocritical to flinch back from that). Choutarou has a practical mind, though, and now Shishido has his own toothbrush there and even his own drawer. Despite that small attempt at organization there's little signs of him all over the apartment. Game walkthroughs next to a stack of music magazines, a PSP, hair elastics, mint gum wrappers.

Not that he'd admit it, but he loves this.

Loves how easy and normal it is. His pajamas appearing in Choutarou's laundry, the energy drinks he likes in the fridge. Books he likes on the nightstand, conditioner for long hair in the bathroom.

Even this, on the couch together, Shishido reading the magazine he bought, Choutarou going through the mail he brought in.

Slow, easy.

Together they polish off more than three thirds of the cake. After, Shishido takes a square of mint gum out of the tin in his back pocket (special edition tin for Christmas… there was no regular packet to be found. Bah), chews.

The phone rings.

Shishido flips a page, frowns at this year's seasonal movie. The resume's title is 'The Magic of Christmas'. He skips and flips another page. Choutarou re-joins him on the couch with the cordless, as well as more cards and some of the presents Shishido pre-sorted for him.

"-just arrived yesterday, yes." Choutarou says.

A voice filters down through the receiver.

The hair on the back of Shishido's neck stands on end. His stomach churns in protest. He doesn't look up from the article, but his eyes stop moving.

Reiko.

"Aa. It's snowing really hard here, too. Hm… yes, by car I should think. Driving carefully. The car might just glide towards the concert hall by itself, though," Choutarou answers.

High, pre-orgasm tinted laughter filters through, as if that was the funniest thing she's ever heard in her entire life.

That insipid, opportunistic bitch. First chance he has he's calling the phone company to have her number blocked. Shishido is known to have deep, personal dislikes towards certain people. But Reiko is someone he quite cheerfully abhors. He can entertain himself for hours thinking up manners by which she might meet an early and messy end.

She and Choutarou once did a duet together, he on the piano, she on the violin. Every recital they performed together was sold out within a few hours, months beforehand. For long after their names popped up in various articles, with vague hinting at the two of them being an item.

Shishido knew it wasn't so, doesn't doubt Choutarou for even a second.

But it hurt and still stings a little, though none of this is Choutarou's fault. He was perfectly professional, if friendly and courteous towards her. Reiko, however, dangled like a limpet off his person every single opportunity she got. That and somehow the two of them were always spotted together when they went out for dinner, even though it always was talk of music and business.

It's safe to say he'd happily skip to when given a baseball bat with which he'd be allowed to bash in her empty, little skull.

She asks something.

Choutarou looks at the small mountain of gifts next to him on the couch. "You sent me something? You shouldn't have… wait, I'm-" he rifles through the presents.

Shishido does his best to seem completely and utterly absorbed in the review about the latest Resident Evil movie.

"…can't seem to find it. What was in it?" Choutarou asks.

Shishido turns a page. New Disney cartoon. Fascinating.

There's a pointed pause. "…Chocolates?" Choutarou repeats.  _Looks_  at Shishido. "Home-made chocolates? I'm sorry but I can't seem to find-" another suspicion-filled look in his direction.

Shishido: one; Reiko: zero.

He smiles, not a little smug, pops a bubble.

There's some mewling and pouting over the phone, at which Choutarou promises to go down and check his mailbox again. Shishido has mostly ceased any pretense of reading and is eavesdropping with abandon. Quite openly.

Despite his victory concerning the chocolates, the conversation drags on. Reiko pumps him shamelessly for information and his near-future plans, which Choutarou clumsily tries to skirt around.

"… so you aren't going out with the orchestra later tonight?" Reiko asks him.

Shishido puts aside his magazine, folds his gum in a tissue. Settles down to narrow his eyes meaningfully.

Looking cornered, Choutarou shoots him a quelling look. "No, but I am-"

She doesn't even let him finish. "I've got a table booked at this lovely restaurant. I think we've dined there before, I recall you greatly preferred the-"

That does it.

He scoots closer.

Choutarou glances at him, seems to know what he is up to but is quite unable (or maybe even unwilling) to stop him from doing it. Nevertheless he tries to shoulder him away when Shishido leans in.

He doesn't kiss him. Doesn't even come near his mouth. Instead he brushes his face along the side of Choutarou's throat, up to exhale against the shell of his ear, to tease the tip of his nose through the soft curling hairs around his ears. His own ponytail drapes dark against the white of Choutarou's shirt, slick and faintly wet still.

He presses close. The length of his torso against Choutarou's side, held just so that he'll be able to feel the warmth of him, his chest and ribs and stomach.

There are valiant efforts on Choutarou's part to continue the conversation over the phone in a normal, blasé sorta manner. But Shishido knows him, knows how to bare his throat and curve his back to catch his eye, his attention.

More than once there's an indignant "Ohtori-kun?!" from the other side of the line, when Choutarou fails to respond.

But he doesn't completely buckle and Shishido has had enough.

Leveling a meaningful look at Choutarou he slides towards the ground, between Choutarou's legs. Without further ado he buries his face in his crotch, and is not a little gleeful to discover how 'distracted' Choutarou really was. He opens his mouth, exhales hot through the fabric against the hard jut of his erection.

There are no words to describe the look on Choutarou's face. Halfway murderous through extremely turned on.

" _Aaa_ -aaah," he goes, as Shishido does it again, only now inching his hot mouth up and down a little. "I… eehm. I got… to. Leave now. C-call back? Er. I-" Shishido looks up through his lashes, cups his mouth over him, tasting fabric but uncaring when Choutarou rather chokes and mutters in a completely undignified manner, "GOTTA GO!" and hangs up.

Shishido doesn't hide his smirk.

Not even when Choutarou seems rather angry at his theatrics. "Ryou-" he grounds out.

Shishido lifts his head. Pointedly licks his lips. It doesn't matter that all he tastes is jeans, it's the rising flush the gesture brings to those cheeks he's after. "Yes?" he asks.

"Why- how- That's not-" he's actually a little outraged, brows frowning and eyes blazing. "Couldn't you just have waited? It's rather childish of you-"

Shishido chucks his chin up. Arches an eyebrow. "You're always free to call her back and ask for another batch of home-made chocolates instead of my mouth on your cock. But hey, whatever you want."

They have a staring contest. While Choutarou's mouth is a hard slash, his blush rises until his ears go pink with it.

"Well?" Shishido presses. He takes the cordless and presents it: a challenge.

The line of Choutarou's mouth softens. Ignoring the phone, he touches Shishido's jaw instead, asking.

　

Inwardly, Shishido fist-pumps.

Shishido: one-fucking-bazillion; Reiko: minus infinity.

***

He can still taste him on his tongue, even an hour later.

True, the taste isn't anything to cheer about, by itself. But the fact that he can taste  _Choutarou_ , as intimately as that, is a testimony to Shishido about how serious they are. Sucking dick is coarse? Maybe so, Shishido doesn't particularly care. Not when it still counts as love making. Not when an hour ago Choutarou's head was tipped back, neck bared and thrumming with the sort of sounds he only makes when it feels really, really good. Not when an hour ago there were long fingers in Shishido's hair, hands full of long dark strands, kneading and tugging and just there to feel the bob of his head up and down, over and again until he came.

That Choutarou lets him, is one thing.

It is another that he looks at Shishido after, heart in his eyes.

It is something completely different that as soon as Choutarou let him, it stopped being about Reiko. That even ceased to matter.

He licks his lips, smiles to himself. They've come far.

"I don't think this is edible anymore," Choutarou says. His head is in the fridge.

Shishido has a rather nice view of his ass sticking back as he bends over. He prods the rice and meat in the pan. They're making omurice. Or rather, Shishido is making it. Choutarou is sorting out his fridge. Most of the contents are past date. When he pulls back, he's holding a green container.

"What was in it?" Shishido asks.

"Something you made just before I went on tour. I think it was oden," he adds, holding it up to the light of the window.

Shishido remembers making oden in this kitchen. Heck, he knows Choutarou's kitchen better than Choutarou does. For all that his partner can cook, he's not very keen on it and often too tired to do so himself. Most of all he quite likes Shishido's cooking and sometimes tosses in lame compliments about his own attempts not being able to compare ever since having eaten Shishido's. Which, admittedly, lame as they are and all Shishido loves hearing.

On his way to the trashcan, Choutarou passes him and rests a hand briefly on the small of his back. Almost absentminded. Shishido's throat tightens. This could've been something he'd have every single day. At least when Choutarou is home. In all honestly he doesn't tour constantly, nor as far as he just has. But he could've been living here by now, maybe even long enough to cease feeling as pathetically starved for Choutarou's every single touch and the spotlight of his attention.

About a year ago, Choutarou asked him to move in.

Shishido refused.

He'd been frightened by how much he'd wanted it. And also by how badly he didn't want it.

Yes, this place is more home to him than his own. Probably if he went to count every single day he's spend here this year, he might even have spent an equal amount of time in both places. A waste of rent and other costs. Especially when he considers just how far gone on Choutarou he is.

His mother, fuck, even his father, have asked him what the holdup is. They've celebrated their ten year anniversary. That's longer than most marriages last. And that all through puberty, high school, graduation, university, first jobs and new environments.

But what if he screws up?

Shishido mouths off alright, but he knows his own weaknesses well enough. What of one of his ugly streaks is bad enough to ruin this? Granted, Choutarou knows him, maybe even better than Shishido knows himself. But knowing and dealing 24/7 every day of your life with it is quite another matter.

Now he's got the faint security of the needy desperation that underscores their time together. Now Choutarou can't seem to get enough of him. What if they live together and Shishido turns out what he knows he is? Ordinary. Not particularly inspiring. Quite obviously not a part of Choutarou's career. Even a dangerous threat to it, considering.

Choutarou isn't into glamour and fame. Contrarily he's rather shy of it, awkward almost. He just wants to play the piano. But being with Shishido could single-handedly ruin it.

That last? An excuse.

He's just a big coward.

Choutarou's the single most import thing in his life and he's frightened about screwing up.

　

Though when they eat the omurice together at the kitchen table, just talking, Shishido thinks about it.

　

Really thinks about it.

***

That afternoon, Choutarou practices.

When Choutarou plays the piano, there's no place for anything else. Even Shishido, whose head is usually full of things he has to do, is doing and wants to do, has to stop and respect the power of it.

He doesn't mind. Not really.

Though it scares him, sometimes. When Choutarou plays, it does something to him. For all that this should be private, something that belongs only to Choutarou and Shishido rightly doesn't even understand and shouldn't have a part in… it does something to him.

Listening to Choutarou play the piano, his life, his ambition, his job, it feels almost private.

Choutarou moves his fingers, his hands, his whole being to demand those unearthly noises out of the instrument and Shishido doesn't get the act of it. Yet somehow when he stands and lets the music fill him up until he threatens to spill over and knows it's not something he's separate of.

This might be practice for tonight, but it feels like hands cupping his heart.

***

"You should get changed."

Shishido grunts. Clacks the buttons on his PSP.

His tuxedo has already been laid out. He doesn't want to put it on. He doesn't really want to attend the concert anymore, altogether. This morning it was all vague and unthreatening enough, but now they've got to be there in less than an hour and a half. If Choutarou hadn't made the mistake of practicing earlier today, Shishido might've been tempted. After all, he loves to hear him play, loves to  _see_  him play. But he's gotten his own private concert already, so why attend the 'real' one? The one where everything is so 'real' it gets fake.

The one where after Choutarou will be swallowed up by the press and admirers and the sort of people Atobe could've become but didn't, not really. Those are also the ones where he'll be slinking at the sidelines, unknown, unimportant, instantly forgotten. It's not Choutarou's fault and he's welcome to his fame, deserves it, but Shishido doesn't want to be reminded that he can't and won't ever have a part in that portion of his life. He has no need to be reminded that in those moments they are irrevocably separated.

Choutarou makes another mistake in taking the grunt for one meaning: 'Why of course, I'll be dressed and ready to go in a jiffy, as soon as I rip this pixelated bad guy's spleen out'.

And that's how with only fifteen minutes to spare, Choutarou -fully groomed and attired- finds Shishido sitting on the couch, tongue sticking out in concentration as he X, X, triangle, squares the boss of level 17 to hell. He fistpumps, selects 'yes' when questioned to save.

"Ryou?" Choutarou says, rather too sweetly. "Can you get changed, please?"

He sighs. Puts his PSP aside and says: "I don't want to. Look-"

"You can't not come!" Choutarou interjects.

"Why not? It's not like you need me around to blow people's minds with your music," Shishido counters. Then adds, rather unwisely, "Besides, I hate tuxedos."

The first part of his reasoning might've gotten him somewhere, but the second smashes the lid on the tiny crack of opportunity he had. It also smashes the lid on Choutarou's patience.

Which he decides to express physically.

By bodily picking Shishido up. Upside down.

One moment Shishido is attempting to dart away from the reaching arms, the next the world swoops and he's dangling upside down, face somewhere in the vicinity of Choutarou's knees, legs uselessly treading air. Blood rushes to his head and his shirt and pants legs ruck down. The tin of mint gum clatters to the ground. He bats at Choutarou's legs, or tries to, but is so disoriented that he ends up sort of half-clinging to his left leg to steady himself.

All this is accompanied by colorful expletives, amongst most notably 'fuck' and 'damn' (there might also be a few wobbly cries of 'put me down!'). There's also a half-laugh, wild and out of control and attempts to gnaw at Choutarou's kneecap.

He gets vague impressions of the table's legs and tatami mats, knocks his still kicking leg against a doorframe and only realizes he's in the bedroom just as Choutarou drops him on the bed.

There's no doubt that he's red in the face from being upside-down, but he's also laughing, weakly and unable to help himself. That is until he sees his tuxedo draped over the hanger and hooked onto the edge of the closet. He's faster than Choutarou. Before the latter can turn to the tuxedo, Shishido lunges and gets hold of his belt. Hauls him down on top of him.

Shishido kisses him, sloppy and forceful, especially when Choutarou goes 'HMPF' (= RYOU!) and forces his hand between their faces to cup it over his mouth and push his head away.

"Ryou," he repeats, not pleased at all and flushed himself.

"What?" Shishido counters. "You're the caveman who dragged to the bedroom upside down. What the hell did you have in mind, if not  _this_ , huh?" As he says this, he hooks his legs over the back of Choutarou's knees, trapping him between his thighs.

Choutarou glares at him. "You need to get changed now, or we're going to be  _late_."

Shishido's frowns back. "I told you I don't want to-"

"You are getting into that tuxedo even if I have to tie you down and drug you," Choutarou says low and urgently. "Don't push me. Get dressed."

They stare at each other.

Shishido nods. "Alright."

Choutarou starts to smile.

"On one condition."

The smile falls.

"If I can outlast you for five minutes, I get to stay home," Shishido challenges.

Choutarou shakes his head. "No. Don't be difficult. We don't have  _time_  for this, don't-"

"You're right," Shishido concedes, nodding gravely. "You wouldn't even last two minutes, let alone  _five_. I'm sorry, forget about it." He begins to struggle into a sitting position. "Hand me the damn suit, so I can-"

He's pushed flat on his back again. He fakes a blink of surprised innocence.

Choutarou gives him a  _look_.

　

This is just too easy.

***

"Don't give me that look," Choutarou says. "I won fair and square."

Under his breath Shishido mutters something about dextrous fingers and not being warned and cheating.

Choutarou rolls his eyes, but he's smiling also, no doubt recalling Shishido's head falling back and his cry of defeat that sounded oddly like victory at the same time. Until he got past his high and had the presence of mind to feel embarrassed that Choutarou won so easily and single-handedly at that... _literally_.

And the stupid tuxedo is all stuffy and tight in the wrong places. The tie pinches his neck. Shishido hooks two fingers around the cloth and drags it looser, before taking out the tin of mint gums and popping one into his mouth.

Scowling and chewing, Shishido keeps his eyes locked on the road ahead of them, despite being a sore lose, ever alert. The snow falls thick and heavy, etching deep tire tracks into the white blanket. They do nearly glide towards the concert hall, after all.

For the first time Choutarou's excruciatingly slow pace is warranted.

Running only slightly late they arrive and manage to park the car without any mishaps. As he pulls the brake Shishido can see the first signs of nerves: trembling fingers.

They only increase as they get out and hurry out the freezing cold into the building. A little wide-eyed and his words tumbling past his lips somewhat fast Choutarou greets the compère and bows too low when he apologizes for their tardiness. As he accompanies Choutarou towards his dressing room, he lets his hand brush Choutarou's, takes his cold fingers when nobody's looking.

They don't talk much when they are in the dressing room. Choutarou opens the mini-fridge and takes out a bottle of water, the kind that comes in an exquisite glass bottle and costs more than Shishido can imagine. He pours a glass, but leaves it. Instead he opts for ruffling through the stacks of music scores, not seeing what he's looking at.

Sometimes other members of the orchestra stick their heads inside, offering kind words but appearing as distracted and drawn as Choutarou does. Shishido doesn't know whether they fully realize what his presence means. He doesn't ask.

This is the limbo zone of Choutarou's career. Shishido wonders what he does when he's elsewhere, how he beats down his nerves by himself. Also he realizes he might not have been capable of letting Choutarou walk out the door earlier, not all alone. He's standing amongst the splendor, but it has no meaning to him, the finely wrought table and matching chair on which Choutarou is seated, the deep red carpet.

Even drinking the untouched glass of water doesn't alter his feeling of being disconnected.

But when the compère appears to announce that they should take their places -Choutarou behind his piano and Shishido in the seat reserved for him in the theatre- Shishido places both his hands on Choutarou's shoulders.

Their eyes meet in the mirror. Shishido returns the wild look with one of his own, the same kind when they used to walk onto a court.

 

 

Shishido raises an eyebrow, smirks.

Crush them, Choutarou.

Choutarou smiles.

***

He doesn't just crush his audience.

He practically vaporizes them and that's  _before_ the performance gets to his solo. Shishido is already glad to be sitting down during the steadily climbing crescendo of the music, through which Choutarou's piano only shines brighter instead of blending into one voice with the other instruments. That's when he fully realizes that when Choutarou said that 'he's been granted the honor to perform with a well-known orchestra', it actually means that the orchestra are all lucky bastards that provide background support to delicately underscore the dominant instrument: the piano. Of which is only one, the one Choutarou is sitting at.

Ever modest, that partner of his.

Though he looks like someone else entirely.

Choutarou can't lie, not when he plays. He's always played from his heart, which is his greatest strength but also what makes his music potentially unstable, at times, when he isn't feeling 'there', wherever he goes when he plays like this. Shishido kinda compares it to when Choutarou bends over him and kisses his neck, hips moving, but he's not sure it is the same.  
  
He can't lie then, either.

This person is a little different than the one moving over him in a half-dark room, but there's passion and fierceness Shishido recognizes.

This one cuts a ferocious and intimidating figure -teeth bared, neatly combed hair starting to curl into disarray as he perspires. Tall, broad-shouldered and a picture of stark black and white, he is nothing short of magnificent and glorious to behold.

Shishido takes it in: the wide domed ceilings (best acoustics in Tokyo, Atobe once said), the gold filigree and the plushly dressed chairs and curtains. The glittering crystal chandelier dangling above the dais like a giant gem -likely mounted solely for this occasion alone- the dark, polished wood.

The seat he's sitting in is one whose ticket he can't pay for, would he have had to. It dawns on him that this truly is the sort of scene that moves even beyond common fame, for Choutarou would have to have told someone about reserving one for him. And these seats aren't allotted freely at all. Yet the implications of what this might mean -a man that is not related to Choutarou being the one to receive the sole ticket- remains private.

The people who work here aren't just professionals. Their love for music ranges beyond common hang-ups like men being with other men.

All this adds to the sickening rush of emotion, but Shishido is pretty sure that they could've sitting in a seedy bar hidden away in some back alley and he'd still feel like his guts are being twined around the prongs of a fork, like spaghetti.

Because really?

He's so proud of Choutarou.

Enough it hurts him like this.

The person playing the piano is real and this amazes Shishido, yet he also feels empowered in the knowledge that everybody else in the whole damn building  _only_ knows him as this.  
  
And their interpretation of this one facet gives them a stunted, superficial impression of his public image.

Shishido has seen and is intimately familiar with the whole picture.

　

He knows Choutarou sleeps on his side alone in bed, knuckles pressed against his mouth like a child. He knows Choutarou loves spooning up behind him, their height differences making it so that the fit is perfect. He knows that Choutarou is a quiet, deep sleeper, but snores softly when he's had a drink too much.

He knows Choutarou can sit hours before a blank canvas, day after day, and Shishido will wonder at this and wait for the moment he inadvisably picks up his brush or charcoal and creates. Sudden, unannounced and then for hours on end to such extremes Shishido will have to bodily separate him from it.

He knows that Choutarou buys the girlish, fruity soaps, but the more sharp and musky aftershaves. He knows that he still uses strawberry toothpaste with extra fluoride for children.

He knows that strange noises and creaking floorboards will frighten him, especially after scary movies, and he won't sleep until Shishido goes to check.

He knows that Choutarou prefers the brown mug, because it feels just right against his lips, holds just enough tea. When lost in thought he'll take a sip from the mug and leave it at his mouth, worrying his upper lip along the rim, liking the feel of the smooth enameled inside.

He knows that Choutarou loves it when Shishido tickles his fingers along the nape of his neck when he passes by.

He knows that when Choutarou sketches, especially when drawing human characters, he'll make the face of the one he's trying to capture. Shishido has never seen him frown as severely as when he's (the few times he was bribed to) posed for Choutarou, but has also seen him open his mouth, smirk, stick out his tongue, pout and bare his teeth.

He knows Choutarou sneezes in threes.

He knows that Choutarou is the kinda weirdo who eats the 'least yummy part' of a meal first and saves the best for last (whereas Shishido always starts with the tastiest and flat-out leaves what he doesn't like).

He knows that kissing the inside of Choutarou's wrist right over the pulse-point when they have sex will sometimes pull him almost violently over the edge.

He knows Choutarou always tries to keep one used garment of Shishido's, 'accidentally' misplacing it or even hiding it, because he likes something that smells like  _him_ when Shishido isn't home. He knows because he once found a long lost t-shirt tucked away under his pillow, so threadbare and used Shishido didn't even recognize it at first glance.

He knows it hurt Choutarou when he said 'no'. He remembers the look in those eyes when he shook his head.

He remembers the first time he saw Choutarou. A tiny, scrawny midget hanging off his mother's hand in the supermarket. He doesn't know why he remembers that, doesn't even know when it was, only knows that it was way before hyotei.

He remembers the first time Choutarou touched him. Under floodlights and a clear night sky, grabbing his hand to haul him to his feet again.

He doesn't remember the decision to grow his hair again, but he does remember the slight curve of Choutarou's mouth when he said 'it's getting longer again'.

He remembers a summer, a certain morning. Warm, glowing sun streaming in through the window and a beloved, cold dog on the kitchen floor. Then he remembers nothing, until his name was called, caring and worried. An arm around his shoulders and something finally making sense to him when all else would not.

He remembers weeks, months spend in distraught agony, not knowing how to handle this, the thing inside of him that made him first dream and then want and then need and there being no answers.

He remembers something painfully familiar, a dead cat under the tires of car and someone hurting but too strong and proud to admit it. An awkward evening, a forced hug. Somehow a night spend together  _holding_ in one bed, better and right and  _finally_  making sense.

He remembers the first time Choutarou stood on a stage, the start of what was to be many. He remembers how the light looked on his hair, the shaking hands, the heart that beat a mile a minute. He remembers the shock on his face when the whole audience burst out into ecstatic clapping, then the rising euphoria. The kiss that had followed after -when Shishido had gone to find and congratulate him- had tasted of that, but so, so much more also.

After that first, the remembers more performances. He remembers them being further away and Choutarou being gone longer and longer. He remembers the ache of loneliness, the cold bed and the hours he sat against the wall in his room, listening to a crappy recording Gakuto made of Choutarou's first concert, over and over again, until one day it refused to start. Then he remembers just sitting against the wall.

He remembers a birthday of his, two years ago. Choutarou abroad and away for weeks to come. He remembers being dragged out by friends, by Gakuto and Jiroh, laughing at his 'pining', scolding him for staying inside to sulk because his boyfriend wasn't there for his birthday. Shishido remembers letting them and having a moderately good time. He remembers coming home at two in the morning. He remembers Choutarou sitting on his doorstep.

He remembers Choutarou on the phone, saying he was sick of it, that he was tired that he wanted to go home (to him). He remembers a towering phone-bill after staying on the phone just listening to one other breathe, only to fall asleep.

He remembers every single damn time he saw Choutarou again, when he was  _back_ , after a day or a week of being on tour. He can roll the images of these memories through his mind like candy.

He remembers and knows all this when he listens to Choutarou be this one tiny facet that can never compare to the whole of him, what makes him  _him_ and real, someone he wouldn't want to trade for the world.

Someone who is home.

Someone who deserves yes.

***

Mouth stuffed full of mint gum, Shishido drops the tin back into his pocket, where it lands with a hollow, metal clatter. He tries chewing, cheeks straining, but eventually spits the half-hard wad of gum into the nice linen handkerchief that came with the tuxedo.

He's making the right decision.

***

The concert ends in a thunderous applause as every single damn person simultaneously rises for a standing ovation, a human forest with waving limbs.

On stage Choutarou bows, low.

Shishido stands up, too. Not to clap or whistle, but to rush backstage in hope he can reach Choutarou before all the rest does. In his pocket, the tin clatters about.

He needs to flash his ticket and his backstage-pass, endure the snottily lifted eyebrow of the guard. Backstage sounds are muffled, even his footfalls as they sink into the plush red carpet, but the roar in the theatre is almost as though he's underwater, deaf by hearing nothing. It makes him feel oddly isolated, alone almost. But then he thinks of the tin and the look on Choutarou's face and him, physically touching him, because it doesn't matter that he's… he's  _that_ on stage, which is him, yes, but insignificant compared to the rest of him and they know that, because if he can just grip his shoulder, then they're  _them_ and he's making the right decision.

But then he rounds a corner only to find a wall of flesh blocking his way, clustered together and pawing to get to the front of the heap. Shishido skids to a halt, breathing heavy, not knowing what to do. There's reporters and journalists, avid lovers of Choutarou's music and plain fans, conversing in breathy voices. One girl at the back is in high heels and her skirt is so short Shishido can see the lacy frill of her panties. She's got killer legs.

The crow is huge. The sheer number of the people, the frenzy of them, catches him off guard. Momentarily he doesn't know what to do. Stay there? If Choutarou sees him, surely- No, that wouldn't work, he just has to wait a minute.

The dull roar, like a herd of mooing, carnivorous mutant bovines, alerts him that Choutarou's made an appearance. Cameras flash. Voices raise into a jumbled mess of praise and questions and people just calling  _Ohtori-san, Ohtori-san, please!_ and Shishido has never seen anything like it, didn't know it had gotten this bad. It's complete and utter chaos. His head swims.

He looks, but doesn't see him. The tin weighs heavy in his pocket. He doesn't really want to come closer, he's not- not part of that.

Then between the fancy up-do of a reporter and a bouquet of roses being waved, Shishido catches a glimpse of him. Choutarou sees him, too. Their eyes meet across the chaotic cluster of people. In a snap of an instant, Shishido fully realizes what this means. That Choutarou is also that man there, adored by others, praised by many, and with a fully-formed handprint on the pages of the music books, all before hitting thirty.

And Shishido stands there, with the most weird and belated sort of present in his pocket ever, and they look at one other, parted by a world of difference.

People start to swing their heads around to track down who Choutarou is looking at, whose name his lips are saying-

This is beyond him. He couldn't belong and he can't ever compete and he's just him, only Shishido Ryou, and he was plain dumb to ever think otherwise.

Before his presence can harm instead of being merely useless, Shishido turns and gets the hell out of there.

***

For a while the only thing he can hear are his uneven, half-running steps, his harsh breathing and behind him the dull roar like a hungry ocean. So when he sees the ornate glass doors and finds them unlocked, he slips through and outside into the cold night. Breathes.

It's still snowing. For a while Shishido stands there, panting and blood pounding against his eardrums, while thick flakes melt into starbursts on the black martial of his tuxedo. After one last steadying exhale, he walks towards the stone balustrade supported by thick, ornate plinths and leans heavily on them, head hanging. _It must be freezing_ , he thinks absently, and shivers as the snow falls on his bare nape. With a sigh, he yanks out the elastic, lets his hair fan open around his face and neck.

It really has gotten long. Long enough to brush the balustrade when he leans on his elbows again.

Outside it is quiet.

Everything is white.

Fresh and new and utterly beautiful.

And very, very cold. His fingers fumble clumsy, stiff and shaking as he fishes out the tin from his pocket. Nearly drops it over into the abyss as he pries open the lid. Which really,  _really_ , royally and truly would have sucked, because he put his own apartment keys in them. Carefully, he shakes the tin to make them rattle and wink light at him. They're coated with sugary power and most likely sticky. Shishido frowns at them, then tenses. Shuts the tin and drops it back into his pocket.

Before the door opens he knows  _who_  is opening that door, yet when he turns he still experiences a sharp pull down the center of his body to see Choutarou standing there, slightly out of breath and color high. Someone must be covering for him. That or the papers will be full of his walking out on the press and his fans tomorrow. Though it feels like he's been up here for ages, it can't have been that long.

Without saying a word, Shishido turns again, looking out over the snow-covered Tokyo city-scape.

Choutarou joins him, leaning heavily on the balustrade -an echo of Shishido's earlier gesture. Not speaking, they stand side-by-side for a long while.

Their breath clouds before their faces. Choutarou curls his long fingers into his palm to protect them from the cold. Shishido's hair sticks against his lips.

It's snowing.

Seems like it is gonna be a white Christmas after all.

Shishido doesn't really like Christmas. Sure, he thinks the basic idea of love and tolerance and sharing and rejoicing is… nice, if kinda lame, but it feels forced that everybody should be like that during only one specific and media-dictated time of the year. He doesn't want to give anybody a fucking useless present because he's supposed to, but he'd rather give them something they really, really want and don't expect to get, spontaneously.

It feels rather fake to him.

That's why he and Choutarou don't give each other presents with Christmas. Part of him knows Choutarou would like to and that he usually sneaks in something a few days after by lieu of present, being all 'oh, I just saw this today and thought you'd like it, no big deal', though Shishido will accidentally stumble over it hidden away in the bottom drawer of his desk... months beforehand.

But maybe this year he can… give something spontaneously, something -he hopes- Choutarou will still really, really want and didn't expect to get anytime soon.

Before he can think better of it, before he can think of what just happened inside and the whole reason they wound up on the balcony, he reaches into his pocket and holds out the tin to Choutarou, careless and carefully  _not_  looking at him, because he doesn't want Choutarou to see how really, really  _he_  wants it now, too.

He stands holding out the tin like that for about a minute, not-speaking, not-looking and he's so damn nervous it takes a while for him to realize Choutarou is not accepting it. He turns to look, stomach sinking.

Choutarou looks rather confused, expression clearly saying 'but I don't want mint-gum' and seeming rather too intimidated by Shishido's fierce wordlessness that he's not sure how to decline without having to endure a prolonged silent-treatment because of it.

For the first time, Shishido opens his mouth and says rather testily: "It's a present."

Choutarou blinks, mouth twitching, but takes the tin. Inspects it. Looks up to thank him, confused but sincere (the idiot) and Shishido nearly hits him over the head right there and then. For all that his partner is a musical prodigy, he can be kinda slow on the uptake otherwise.

"Choutarou," he says on a sigh. "You gotta open it."

Snow catches on his hair and cheekbones, flaring rainbow spots in his vision as the light from through the glass doors refracts on them. Choutarou is outlined in a hazy halo of light as he opens it.

The keys gleam dully.

The scent of sugary mint fills the air.

Choutarou frowns, puzzled. Takes the keys out, turns them over in his palm questioningly.

"Your apartment keys," Choutarou states.

Shishido nods.

The long fingers are angry red, played hot and sore, now bitten cold. "I don't-" he starts, but Shishido cuts him off.

"-I don't need them anymore," Shishido murmurs awkwardly, pulling at a strand of his hair and starting to look away. "You asked and I… well, yes. If you still, uh, still want me to. You know" -he breathes in deep- "your home could be mine. If you don't mind and still want me t-"

The words come stunted and awkward and so damn lame that it comes as a profound relief when Choutarou decides to shut him up.

By kissing him.

It's so cold that the heat of his mouth burns and stings and there's hair somewhere in it, long and snagging on their lips. And when Shishido tips his head back and opens his mouth for Choutarou to lick inside, it gets into their mouths too. Their lips catch and drag, cold and clumsy and sensitive when snow flakes sneak into the kiss, sharply cold and instantly forgotten. Choutarou is deliberate and demanding, holding him so close that Shishido is lifted to the tips of his toes while he kisses him, a steady deep contact. Their lower lips catch and their tongues slide together, slow and good and Shishido can feel the words drops like hot peddles at the crest of his hips when Choutarou murmurs with lips slicking against his:

"I'd love that."

　

　

　

　

-Omake-

　

　

Christmas morning dawns to a vista of snowfall of the likes Tokyo hasn't seen in years.

Everything seems soft and hazy, but mostly the utter  _stillness_  is what permeates the atmosphere. There's not much noise but for the low whir of the heater and the crinkle of wrapping paper as Choutarou opens his presents.

Yesterday's cake is still tasty and Shishido slowly spoons the last slice of it into his mouth. He's content with just watching Choutarou and relive snatches yesterday's rather spectacular aftermath. Choutarou still feels kinda bad for 'desecrating' the hallowed changing room where so much esteemed artists and musicians have sat and did their… whatever the hell it is people usually do in their changing rooms besides switching stuffy outfits. But Shishido doesn't feel even one drop of guilt, not for the cracked mirror, not for any… uh, marks that may have been left. Mostly he is plotting how he can convince Choutarou to mount a big-ass mirror on his bedroom wall.

…  _their_  bedroom wall.

Damn.

Shishido gets goosebumps just thinking about it.

He sits there kinda, yeah alright, smiling all lame and dreamy, completely relaxed and happy for all of fifteen minutes.

Then Choutarou clears his throat. Delicately.

The happy feeling squirms uncomfortably.

"…ah," Choutarou coughs. "Ryou?" His ears are flaming red.

The happy feeling starts to wilt. He sits up. "Yeah?"

"Oshitari-san… has, uhm, given me a present. But I-" he shakes his head a little and Shishido rises sharply from the couch. "I can't help but think he… er means for you to use it or-"

Shishido peers over his shoulder.

The happy feeling transforms into a raging flaming bull of death. Shitting fireballs. Of death. Or cause it. Slowly and excruciatingly.

He takes a deep, steadying breath. "I," he says. "Am gonna fucking murder him."

Choutarou winces. "Thought so." He mutters, but then he hitches a shoulder and goes on in a small voice: "-but you have to admit it's kinda-"

　

"Finish that sentence and die, Ohtori."

　

　

"Sorry, Shishido-san."

　

- _fin_ -


End file.
